7fw^2*5jf^v^ir''-' ' 

m 


UNBROKEN  LINES 


Books  by  the  Same  Author 


CAMP  BRAVE  PINE 
JANET  OF  THE  DUNES 
JOYCE  OF  THE  NORTH  WOODS 
LITTLE  DUSKY  HERO,  A 
MAM'SELLE  Jo 
MAN  THOU  GAYEST,  THE 
PLACE  BEYOND  THE  WINDS,  THE 
PRINCESS  RAGS  AND  TATTERS 
SON  OF  THE  HILLS,  A 
VINDICATION,  THE 


"Down  the  narrow  path  came  Glenn  and  her  father, 
with  Rajah,  the  St.  Bernard" 


Unbroken  Lines 


BY 
HARRIET  T.  COMSTOCK 


Illustrated 

by 
E.  F.  Ward 


GARDEN  CITY  NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1919 


COPYRIGHT,  1919,  BY 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED,   INCLUDING  THAT  OP 

TRANSLATION  INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES, 

INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 


I  dedicate  this  book  to 
JESSIE  FRANK  COMSTOCK 

She  has  watched  the  struggle  of  the  "  Unbroken  Lines  " 
to  merge  into  one.  She  has  felt  the  call  of  Love  and 
Service  and  I  know  her  good  wishes  and  sympathy  will 
speed  this  book  of  mine  on  its  way. 

HARRIET  T.  COMSTOCK. 
New  York  City,  New  York. 


912842 


SUPPOSE 

SUPPOSE  a  young  soul,  just  awake  to  the  mean 
ing  of  Life  but  never  having  experienced  Life, 
were  suddenly,  and  without  warning,  taken 
away  by  what  we  call  death. 

And  suppose  that  after  a  space  of  time,  in  some 
[still  and  peaceful  Place  of  Choice,  the  soul  were 
asked  whether  it  would  pass  on  to  other,  and  new, 
opportunity  or  return  to  earth  and  learn  its  unfin 
ished  lessons. 

And  suppose  that  the  soul  should  say:  "I  will 
return  and  learn.  I  will  pay,  for  the  experience,  all 
that  God  demands." 

Now  what  relation  do  our  laws  and  codes  bear  to 
such  a  soul-quest?  Do  they  hamper  or  assist?  Do 
they  recognize  their  own  limitations  and,  while  seek 
ing  the  good  of  the  many  to  the  exclusion  of  the 
few,  refrain  from  bitterness  and  prejudice? — or  do 
they  assume  a  responsibility  and  power  that  defeat 
the  higher  good  of  all?  Do  they,  when  all  is  said, 
exact  of  the  soul  what  the  Creator  demands  or  what 
blindness  and  human  weakness  extort? 

Do  they  tend  to  educate  the  soul  or  do  they 
send  it  back  to  its  Maker  —  crippled? 

Suppose  we  think  about  it. 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

(t  Down  the  narrow  path  came  Glenn  and  her  father, 
with  Rajah,  the  St.  Bernard  "...         Frontispiece 
(see  page  8) 


FACING   PAGB 


"  The  soft  little  bundle  was  gathered  close  to  Mor 
ton's  breast " 172 

<<f How  did  you  get  here?5" 252 


UNBROKEN  LINES 


UNBROKEN  LINES 

CHAPTER  I 

IT  WAS  full  noon  of  a  golden  October  day.  The 
stillness  was  broken  only  by  the  rhythmic 
strokes  of  an  axe  in  the  near  distance,  as  it 
rose  and  fell,  wielded  by  a  strong  and  well-trained 
arm. 

Towering  around  and  about  a  little  open  space 
in  the  wilderness  were  mighty  peaks,  snow-crowned 
and  glistening  against  the  clear  blue  of  the  autumn 
sky.  There  were :  the  Monk — he  was  king  of  them 
all;  the  Lily — slim,  tall,  and  aloof;  the  Twins — hud 
dling  close  and  connected,  near  the  top,  by  a  rocky 
bridge,  narrow  and  rugged,  below  which  lay  depths 
of  silent  gloom;  and  the  Giant's  Tooth — jagged, 
cruel,  and  bristling  near  the  base — with  scrubby 
pine  that  curled  back  like  a  beard,  exposing  the 
grim  fang. 

The  clearing  was  approached  by  a  broad  trail 
or  road.  It  led  up  from  a  long,  low,  log-cabin  dwell 
ing  which  crept  lovingly  close  to  the  curves  of  the 
foot  hill  of  the  mighty  Monk  which  rose  majestically 
over  it  like  a  protecting  overlord. 

The  house,  apparently,  had  begun  its  existence  as 
a  humble  one-room  shelter,  but  had  expanded,  as  its 
owner's  needs  and  ambitions  grew,  until  now  it  num- 


4  UNBROKEN  LINES 

bered  many  rooms  and  boasted  of  wide  piazzas, 
generous  window?  and  doors,  and  two  massive  chim 
neys  built  of  native  rock. 

Winding-  -  past  the  Lodge,  the  road  continued, 
sidling  off  here  and  there  to  escape  a  bit  of  the  woods 
or  an  innocent-looking  brook.  It  kept  to  the  open 
and  the  sunlight  until  suddenly  it  dipped  into  the 
canyon  where  it  shrank  against  the  rocky  wall  on  the 
right  as  if  afraid  to  look  into  the  black  cavern  on  the 
other  side,  and  in  the  bottom  of  which  roared  a  mad 
river — a  frenzied  river,  caught  in  the  darkness  and 
fighting  its  way  to  the  sea,  far,  far  away,  but  whose 
call  was  in  its  soul. 

In  the  sunlit  space  on  the  edge  of  the  forest  a 
fire  burned  brightly;  over  it  swung  a  pot,  boiling 
and  bubbling  and  exhaling  delicious  odours  that  be 
spoke  a  feast.  Beside  the  crackling  logs  stood  a 
tall,  slim  girl  in  corduroy  trousers,  leather  leggings, 
a  much-worn  Norfolk  jacket,  and  a  blue  flannel 
waist,  open  at  the  throat.  She  might  easily  have 
been  mistaken  for  a  boy  had  not  her  cap  been  thrown 
hastily  on  the  ground,  thus  releasing  the  wealth 
of  hair  which,  in  colouring,  suggested  the  tints  of 
oak  leaves  in  the  autumn  when  the  sunlight  slants 
through  them.  The  face,  framed  by  the  rich  hair, 
was  thin  and  dusky;  the  eyes,  wide  and  peering, 
took  their  shade  and  expression  from  their  owner's 
moods  and  the  hour's  demands.  Out  of  them  looked 
all  that  the  girl  was,  but  they  were  waiting,  hungry 
eyes — full  of  friendliness,  faith,  and  joyousness. 

This  was  Glenn  Arnold,  and  she  had  come  to  the 
forest's  edge  to  celebrate.  She  was  eighteen.  Since 
morning  she  had  been  quivering  with  a  sense  of 


UNBROKEN  LINES  5 

being  alive;  she  felt  full  of  power  and  a  strange  pre 
sentiment  that  something  unusual  was  about  to 
happen.  She  had  always  been  alert  and  vital, 
but  now  she  was  aware  of  it;  and  there  was  a  great 
difference.  Everything  looked  changed.  The  won 
derful  scene  that  lay  around  her  had  been  her  only 
outlook  since  babyhood.  She  loved  it;  and  she  won 
dered,  now,  why  it  should  seem  like  a  new  thing 
to  her. 

"It  is  because  I  am  new,"  she  finally  concluded; 
and  raised  her  eyes  to  the  Monk. 

For  that  special  peak  the  girl  had  an  almost  wor 
shipful  regard.  The  snow  on  its  summit  was  like  a 
spotless  cowl,  and  from  it  looked  out  a  rugged,  rocky 
outline  startlingly  like  a  human  face.  When  the 
snow  fell  over  the  deep  eyes  the  mountain  seemed 
to  brood;  when  it  lifted,  it  looked  gravely  benign. 
There  were  times  when  a  high,  mad  wind  took  liber 
ties  with  the  cowl  and  sent  the  soft  snow  flying  like  a 
huge  plume;  at  such  moments,  for  all  its  massiveness, 
the  Monk  appeared  ethereal,  playful,  and  most  al 
luring. 

Once,  when  very  young,  Glenn  Arnold,  seeing 
the  mountain  in  such  a  gleeful  state,  had  raised  her 
arms  and  cried:  "He  wants  me!"  And  someone — 
her  father  probably — had  replied:  "When  your 
body  is  as  strong  as  an  Indian's  and  your  eyes  as 
true  as  an  eagle's,  you  shall  climb  the  Monk  and  give 
him  his  wish." 

So  the  Monk  was  an  ambition;  an  inspiration  as 
well  as  a  worshipped  deity. 

Year  after  year  Glenn  Arnold  held  to  her  deter 
mination  to  climb  the  highest  peak  on  the  range. 


6  UNBROKEN  LINES 

When  she  was  twelve  she  had  mastered  the  Lily. 
It  had  been  a  joy  to  follow  her  father  up  the  unseen 
trails;  to  hear  his  praise  and  heed  his  command  to 
go  slow  and  sure,  as  a  true  mountaineer  should. 
At  fifteen,  the  Twins  were  conquered.  Arnold  had 
taken  keen  delight  in  this  achievement  of  his  girl, 
for  she  had  discovered,  on  that  climb,  a  new  trail; 
had  disappeared  from  his  sight,  finally  to  emerge 
on  the  rocky  bridge  near  the  summit.  He  had  stood 
and  gazed  upon  her,  outlined  against  the  blue  of 
the  sky,  a  slim,  fearless  figure.  His  pride  and  ad 
miration  struggled  with  his  natural  fear  for  her  safety, 
but  she  had  not  seemed  affected  by  the  yawning 
depths  below;  her  eyes  had  been  fixed  upward  and 
across  the  abyss,  and  her  laugh  rang  unafraid  and 
mirthful. 

"And  now!" — she  had  declared  after  that  victory 
— "now  for  the  Monk!" 

The  Giant's  Tooth  was  discarded.  Arnold  never 
encouraged  any  one  to  climb  that  peak. 

"There's  no  view,"  he  explained,  "and  it's  an 
ugly,  unfeeling  mountain.  I  haven't  any  use  for  a 
struggle  that  repays  you  with  nothing  but  barked 
shins  and  lost  temper." 

"Perhaps,  now  that  I  am  quite  old,"  thought  the 
girl  by  the  fire,  "Dad  will  take  me  up  the  Monk!" 
She  waved  a  kiss  to  the  rocky  face  far  above  her. 
Like  all  lonely  mountain  folk  she  felt  for  animals 
and  objects  a  close  human  comradeship. 

"What  are  you  looking  at  ?"  she  asked  of  the  peak, 
with  that  feeling  of  something  about  to  happen 
again  possessing  her.  "  What  do  you  see — coming  ? " 

Then  she  recalled,  with  a  flood  of  tenderness,  all 


UNBROKEN  LINES  7 

that  this  day  of  hers  meant.  Through  the  years, 
since  she  had  first  been  told  that  her  coming  into 
life  had  meant  her  mother's  going  out  of  it,  she  had 
striven  to  make  her  father  gladder  because  of  her — 
not  sadder — since  she  had  cost  so  much.  He  and 
she  had  always  devoted  the  day  to  a  tender  celebra 
tion.  They  approached  it  with  reverent  prepara 
tion,  and  devoted  hours  to  question  and  answer  of  a 
time  that  was  unclouded  for  the  man,  and  hid  in 
mystery  for  the  girl. 

"Some  day,  when  you  are  old  enough  to  take  it 
all  in,"  Arnold  had  promised,  "I'm  going  to  tell 
you  everything  about  her." 

As  she  had  struggled  to  make  her  body  strong 
enough  to  climb  to  the  Monk's  summit,  so  Glenn 
had  sought  to  impress  upon  her  father,  year  by  year, 
that  she  was  almost  old  enough  to  hear  the  beautiful, 
whole  story  of  her  mother. 

"And  to-morrow,"  Arnold  had  said  the  night 
before;  "to-morrow,  if  the  day  is  fine,  girl,  let's  eat 
in  the  open.  I'll  keep  the  afternoon  free  and — I'll 
tell  you — the  story!" 

It  had  been  thrilling  to  look  forward  to.  All  the 
morning  the  work  had  flown  from  Glenn's  hands — 
flown,  finished  and  well  done.  All  the  morning  she 
had  chanted — it  was  an  odd  habit  of  hers — in  a  clear, 
musical  voice,  of  everything  that  caught  and  held 
her  attention.  She  chanted  to  the  dogs  that  followed 
her  about;  to  the  shy  creatures  of  the  woods  that  she 
and  Arnold  had  tamed,  and  which — now  that  winter 
was  near — were  edging  closer  to  the  care  of  them 
whom  they  could  trust.  She  had  invented  an  en 
tirely  new  song  of  praise  to  the  mountains,  excluding 


8  UNBROKEN  LINES 

the  Giant's  Tooth  from  her  devotional  state  of  mind, 
because  it  was,  to  her  affections,  an  outcast,  a  mere 
spectre  among  the  friendly  peaks. 

And  the  time  had  come!  High  noon!  The  fire 
leaping  and  curling  about  the  pot;  the  fragrance  of 
the  crushed  autumn  leaves  and  the  even  sound  of 
those  strokes  of  her  father's  axe. 

Glenn  put  her  hands  to  her  lips  and  called  loudly: 

"Daddy — oh — ooh — ooh!"  It  was  like  one  long 
and  coaxing  word. 

Instantly  the  axe  ceased  its  work.  Presently 
down  the  narrow  path  came  Rajah,  the  St.  Bernard, 
followed  by  Tom  Arnold,  a  massive  figure,  head 
thrown  back  and  singing  as  he  strode  toward  the 
clearing. 

Arnold  was  forty-seven;  a  friend  by  instinct,  a 
foe  only  from  necessity.  His  friendliness  knew  no 
limit;  his  anger  was  to  be  avoided.  Just  now  his 
face  beamed  with  happiness  and  content.  His  girl 
was  his  idol;  he  had,  from  her  birth,  left  her  free  to 
choose  and  decide  her  small  affairs.  He  had  often 
feared — often  had  his  moments  of  doubt,  when  com 
mon  sense  and  tradition  lashed  him  at  critical  times — 
but  in  the  end  he  always  thanked  God  that  he  had 
kept  his  hands  off  and  heeded  the  superstitious  im 
pulse  that  had  been  born  in  him  at  the  time  of  the 
child's  birth. 

"It  has  come  out  all  right!"  he  now  believed.  He 
felt  it  keenly  to-day.  "You  can't  unmake  a  creature 
like  that!"  he  often  argued  as  he  watched  his  girl; 
"she's  found  her  own  trail,  thank  God,  just  as  she 
found  the  hidden  one  on  the  Twins." 

He  called  to  Glenn  as  he  drew  near;  she  waved 


UNBROKEN  LINES  9 

back  to  him  as  one  good  comrade  salutes  another. 
Reaching  the  fire,  Arnold  stretched  himself  on  the 
ground  and  leaned  against  a  sturdy  tree.  Rajah, 
after  nosing  about  Glenn,  came  close  to  him  and 
awaited  his  share  in  the  feast. 

"Great  day,  this!"  said  Arnold,  looking  about. 
He  was  by  nature  both  artist  and  poet,  though  he 
would  never  paint  a  picture  nor  write  a  line  of  verse. 
Something  within  him  saw  and  heard,  and  through 
all  his  manhood  years  he  had  studied  and  read  and 
worshipped  at  a  shrine  that  his  instincts  had  kept 
clean  and  holy. 

"Isn't  it,  Dad?"  answered  Glenn.  "And  look  at 
the  Monk;  doesn't  he  look  knowing?" 

"Looks  almighty  vivid.  Girl,  this  coming  year 
you  and  I  will  make  a  try  at  the  old  fellow." 

"Dad!" 

"I  haven't  forgotten;  but  it's  going  to  be  a  sort  of 
pilgrimage — just  you  and  me.  We'll  take  days  for 
it — camping  by  fires  and  sleeping  in  sheltered  caves. 
There's  a  lake  up  near  the  top  as  blue  as  the  sky 
is  now;  flowers  growing  close,  looking  as  if  angels 
had  planted  them.  Why,  girl,  I've  guided  many  a 
man  up  the  Monk — some  of  them  good  fellows  and 
right  minded — but  I  haven't  ever  taken  one  by  a  trail 
that  I  know  and  which  leads,  sudden-like,  to  the  lake.. 
I've  saved  that  for  you.  It's  a  ticklish  bit  of  way 
just  before  you  come  to  the  opening — you  have  to 
put  all  your  thought  in  it — and  when  you  first  glimpse 
the  lake  it  just  about  takes  your  breath  away." 

Glenn  was  standing  open-eyed  and  radiant  as  her 
father  spoke.  Then  she  came  close  to  him  and  bent 
over  him. 


io  UNBROKEN  LINES 

"My  Dad!"  was  all  she  said;  but  she  kissed  him  in 
that  odd,  maternal  way  of  hers  which  always  made  her 
seem  so  absurdly  old  and  yet  so  pathetically  young. 

They  ate  quietly  for  a  time  after  that.  They 
were  healthfully  weary,  normally  hungry,  and  they 
were  both  coming  close  to  an  hour  that  needed 
strength  and  peace  of  mind.  Glenn  fed  Rajah  who, 
with  dignified  patience,  had  bided  his  time  with  one 
eye  upon  the  remnants,  while  with  the  other,  to  all 
appearances,  he  slept. 

At  last,  having  packed  away  the  dishes  and  re 
plenished  the  fire,  Glenn  came  close  to  her  father — 
his  face  was  hidden  now  by  clouds  of  smoke  from  his 
pipe.  He  was  puffing  furiously — she  sat  crouched 
beside  him,  Rajah  at  her  feet. 

"Now,  Daddy,"  she  whispered,  "the  story." 

They  were  both  a  bit  shy.  It  was  like  coming,  at 
last,  to  a  door  which  to  one  of  them  had  never  been 
opened.  Arnold  had  stood  guard  hitherto.  Within 
lay  memories  too  sacred  for  even  his  child  to  know 
until  she  could  estimate  their  worth.  With  the  open 
ing  of  the  shielding  portals  the  girl  would  see  her 
mother  with  her  own  eyes — and  youth  could  be  so 
critical,  so  cruel!  In  the  past,  when  Glenn  had  been 
told  about  her  mother,  she  had  been  given  only  such 
things  as  a  child  should  know  of  one  whose  going  had 
deprived  her  of  so  much.  But  now  she  was  to  judge! 

"Was  my  mother  pretty?"  she  had  often  asked; 
and  Arnold,  from  the  depths  of  his  own  feeling,  had 
replied:  "She  was  beautiful."  Perhaps  Glenn  might 
not  think  so!  "And  she  was  very  good,  Dad?" 
(There  had  never  been  any  doubt  in  the  tone  of  the 
query;  it  was,  rather,  an  affirmation.) 


UNBROKEN  LINES  11 

"The  best  woman  on  earth,  girl."  But  would 
Glenn  accept  that  after  she  knew? 

"The  story,  Daddy!" 

The  words  seemed  to  find  Arnold  in  the  cloudy 
space  that  enveloped  him;  a  far  region,  where  he 
stood  alone. 

"I'll  begin  with  the  night  you  came,  girl;  the  night 
that  you  came,  and — she  went.  We  can  travel 
backward  and  forward  after  that,  but  that  night 
stands  out  clear  and  wonderful — set,  as  it  were,  be 
tween  her  and  you." 

Glenn  pressed  her  cheek  to  Arnold's  arm.  The 
arm  was  rigid  as  if  set  for  action.  • 

"It  was  the  strangest  night  I  ever  saw;  it  sort  of 
fixed  itself  in  your  mind.  It  was  so  still  that  you 
could  almost  hear  the  sap  running  down,  leaving 
the  twigs  crackling  and  dry.  The  mountains  looked 
near,  and  waiting — as  I  was!  I  was  standing  near 
the  bedroom  window,  under  the  youngish  pine 
clump;  I  could  hear,  but  I  kept  looking  up  at  the 
clouds.  They  were  thin  and  white  and  loose,  they 
floated  and  broke  and  then  gathered  together  like  a 
drift  of  snow.  They  were  filled  with  light.  I 
looked  afterward  in  the  almanac  and  found  that 
there  wasn't  a  moon  that  night,  but  it  seemed  as  if 
there  was  one. 

"Suddenly,  as  I  watched  those  clouds,  they  opened 
and  a  star  showed  through.  It  seemed  to  be  de 
tached — just  ready  to  drop — it  was  the  most  won 
derful  thing  I  ever  saw.  And  then  I  heard — words 
— words.  Someone  was  telling  me  that — that  you 
had  come  and  that — she  was — gone!" 

"  Dad ;  does  it  hurt  too  much  to  go  on  ? " 


12  UNBROKEN  LINES 

"No;  I  don't  want  to  forget  even  the  least  part 
of  it,  girl.  All  through  the  years  I  have  thought  it 
over.  It  is  good  to  talk  it  out." 

"Dear  Dad!  Oh!  what  a  wonderful  beginning  I 
had!  And  so,  ever  after,  you  got  to  fancying  that 
the  clouds  parted  to —  take  our  mother"  [Glenn 
rarely  said  my  mother]  "in,  and  let  the  light  of  the 
star  down,  to  help  me — since  I  was  to  have  no 
mother.  You  called  it  my  Light,  dear,  and  you 
made  yourself  believe  that  it  would  guide  me  better 
than  you  could.  Daddy,  Daddy;  why  you  have 
always  led  me;  always  I  have  seen  you — just  a  little 
way  ahead,  never  far — near  enough,  always,  to 
touch  and  to  call  to." 

Arnold  raised  his  hand  and  smoothed  the  head 
resting  against  his  arm. 

"We've  been  great  pals,"  he  murmured — "great 
pals.  You  were  a  queer  little  creature  from  the 
start — big-eyed  and  knowing.  I  reckon  she  left  a 
lot  of  herself  to  help  you;  the  mother  sense  of 
her.  Why,  girl,  you  mothered  things  from  the  first; 
you'd  even  pat  and  comfort  yourself  just  as  if 
something  within  you  were  taking  care  of  something 
else  within  you — something  that  was  helpless  and 
lonely.  There  were  always  two  of  you — always: 
the  old  you,  and  the  little,  young  you.  They  were 
always  up  against  each  other — working  the  way 


out." 


"Yes,  Dad;  I  feel  that.  I  know  what  you  mean 
and  you  just  stood  off,  looking  on  and —  loving  the 
two  of  us.  Dear  old  Dad ! " 

Then  there  was  silence.  Arnold's  hand  was  on 
the  long-shut  door;  Glenn  was  waiting. 


UNBROKEN  LINES  13 

"But — before  that  night,  Dad?  You  have  never 
told  me  about —  before!" 

Every  fibre  of  Arnold's  body  stiffened  to  the  task. 
He  had  kept  his  girl  safe  for  the  knowing  of  what 
was  to  be  known.  He  had  vowed  that  she  should 
learn  the  truth  from  him  after  he  believed  her 
strong  enough  to  endure  it. 

"Where — did  you  find — our  mother?  " 

"Down  at  Connor's!" 

It  was  characteristic  of  Glenn  that  at  first  she 
spoke  no  word.  She  was  picturing  it  all.  She  knew 
Connor's,  fifteen  miles  down  the  trail.  All  that 
was  unfit  for  the  heights  cluttered  there.  It  was  an 
evil  place  in  the  only  settlement  within  fifty  miles. 
Around  it  were  grouped  the  general  store,  post 
office,  and  jail;  the  Court  sat  there  on  occasions  of 
necessity.  No  church,  no  school,  hampered  the 
habits  at  Connor's.  And  there  was  only  one  kind 
of  woman  there! — all  others  made  homes  as  far 
from  it  as  possible. 

"Yes,  Dad?"  said  Glenn,  at  last.  She  had  the 
first  shock  adjusted,  but  it  had  left  her  white  and 
dizzy. 

"She  was  a  pretty,  frail  little  thing,"  resumed 
Arnold,  determinedly.  "I  used  to  go  down  just  to 
look  at  her.  I  couldn't  keep  away.  Over  and  again 
I'd  go  down  and  stand  and  watch.  I  got  to  think 
ing  that  I  kept  the —  worst  from  her.  By  and 
by  she  would  come  out — to  me.  She  said  she  had 
to;  it  was  like  something — calling  her.  And  then  at 
last  I  made  her  come  with  me — away  from  Connor's. 
She  wanted  to,  but  she  held  back — for  my  sake.  I 
took  her  to  the  minister's.  I  wouldn't  listen  to 


i4  UNBROKEN  LINES 

anything  she  wanted  to  say;  she  wanted  to  tell  me 
things;  I  wouldn't  hear — I  didn't  want  to  know.  I 
had  to  have  her — had  to  keep  her  safe — and  I  didn't 
want  anything  else  to  enter  in. 

"Girl,  I  don't  know  how  to  explain.  I  can't  tell  it 
— in  words — but  your  mother  was  a  beautiful  wo 
man — a  good  woman!  Yes,  by  Heaven,  a  good  wo 
man!"  Arnold  seemed  defending  the  past  from  the 
strange,  searching  eyes  of  the  girl  at  his  side.  "She 
left  all — all  the  past  that  never  rightly  was  hers — 
down  at  Connor's.  When  she  got  where  she  be 
longed — got  to  what  was  rightfully  hers — she  was 
good — good ! " 

"Yes,  good!"  Glenn  echoed  the  words  like  one  in 
her  sleep  who  dreamily  follows  a  voice  half  heard. 
"I'm  sure  she  was  good!" 

"And — and  before  you  came,  girl,"  Arnold  went 
on,  "she  wrote  all  her  little  story.  I  can  see  her, 
now,  sitting  with  her  shining  face  by  the  fireside — 
writing,  writing.  She  used  to  say  that  if  I  wouldn't 
listen  I  must  read;  but  I  didn't,  ever!  She  put  the 
papers,  all  tied  together,  in  a  drawer  of  a  table.  I 
never  touched  them  but  once,  and  that  was  the  night 
she —  sher  went  away.  I  took  them — and  burned 
them.  They  made  such  white  ashes — just  white 
ashes." 

"Dad!  that  was — right!  Thank  you,  Dad.  Oh! 
how  she  must  have  loved  you." 

"Yes — she  did!"  This  came  quickly;  trium 
phantly. 

"Once — it  was  the  only  time  she  ever  talked  much 
about  herself — she  said  that  if  she  had  it  all  to  do  over 
again  she  would  never  be  afraid.  It  was  being 


UNBROKEN  LINES  15 

afraid  to  take  life  bit  for  bit  that  cowed  women.  She 
said  they  always  began  with  an  awful  load  of  what 
was  handed  to  them  by  others,  and  they  hadn't 
strength  to  go  their  own  way — the  way  God  meant 
them  to  go — step  by  step — each  step,  no  matter 
what  it  was,  leading  to  the  next.  She  said  every 
woman  ought  to — to  find  her  own " 

"Trail?"  queried  Glenn. 

"Yes,  girl;  that  was  the  word/' 

"Dear,  wise  little  mother!" 

Glenn  was  not  judging,  she  was  quivering  with 
sympathy.  By  the  dying  fire  the  man  and  the  girl 
sat  in  silence  at  last.  The  sun  sent  slanting  rays  into 
the  clearing.  A  chill  crept  in — it  came  up  from  the 
canyon. 

"We  must — go  home  now,  Daddy!" 

Glenn  rose  and  stretched  her  strong,  young  arms; 
then  she  turned  and  clasped  them  around  her  father's 
neck.  Looking  full  at  him,  a  great  tenderness  trans 
forming  her  face,  she  said: 

"Daddy;  I  feel  as  if  you  had  given  my  mother  to 
me  to-day.  Always  before  she  has  seemed  like  some 
thing  I  had  only  heard  of;  now  I  have  her!" 

"Heaven  bless  you,  girl!     Heaven  bless  you." 

And  then,  for  the  first  time,  Arnold's  voice  broke. 

And  that  was  all  of  the  story  for  which  Glenn  had 
waited;  striven  to  be  wise  enough  to  understand.  A 
brief,  misty,  little  story  that  had  ended  in  a  heap  of — 
white  ashes! 

But  had  it?  Already  curiosity,  a  passionate  ac 
ceptance  of  a  strange  responsibility — near  and  com 
manding — possessed  Glenn.  When  she  went  down 
the  trail  she  almost  felt  her  mother's  presence. 


CHAPTER  II 

SAM  MORTON,  astride  his  tired-looking 
horse,  loomed  in  sight  the  evening  of  Glenn's 
birthday  just  as  the  sun  was  dropping  behind 
the  Monk.  Sam  collected  the  mail  at  Connor's  and 
distributed  it  to  the  scattered  people  along  the  trail. 
Sam  was  good-natured  and  popular  and,  as  no  one 
else  would  assume  the  mail  responsibility,  he  had 
accepted  it — but  with  a  clear  understanding  that  he 
was  a  free  agent.  This  was  a  local  matter.  If  peo 
ple  were  particular,  they  might  go  to  Connor's  them 
selves  for  their  letters.  No  one,  Sam  least  of  all, 
objected  to  that;  but  if  they  availed  themselves  of 
Sam's  services  they  must  include  his  temperament- 
ality.  He  was  as  independent  as  the  wildest  of  the 
creatures  of  the  hills;  he  worked  when  he  felt  like  it. 
He  made  money  easily,  for  he  was  clever;  spent  it 
frugally,  because  he  was  canny;  and  enjoyed  life  as 
it  came  along.  He  had  no  concern  for  his  yester 
days,  and  only  such  interest  in  his  to-morrows  as  they 
affected  his  to-days.  He  was  long  and  lean,  brown 
and  good-looking.  He  laughed  a  great  deal,  throw 
ing  his  head  back  and  showing  his  strong,  white  teeth. 
His  eyes  flashed  and  gleamed.  He  took  for  granted 
that  he  would  gain  his  way  and,  consequently,  had 
little  trouble  in  achieving  it. 

His  mail  bag  hung  limply  at  his  side.     The  Lodge 
was  almost  his  last  stop.     His  own  home,  a  mere 

16 


UNBROKEN  LINES  17 

'••'•^•''' '  •••««-:• 

shack  in  a  wild  bit  of  woodland,  was  ten  miles  be 
yond.  He  saw  Glenn  from  afar.  She  was  standing 
in  the  doorway  of  the  Lodge  looking  down  the  trail. 

Since  her  return  to  the  house  she  had  been  think 
ing  of  the  trail,  and  Connor's  and  of  her  little,  pale 
mother  coming  up  to  what  was  her  own!  It  had 
all  become  so  vital  and  real;  a  sense  of  protection  for 
her  mother  had  suddenly  developed,  and  Connor's 
had  taken  on  a  new  significance. 

Once,  when  she  was  fifteen,  her  father  had  taken 
her  to  the  settlement;  he  was  obliged  to  go  on  business 
and  he  thought  the  change  might  amuse  her,  since  she 
was  too  young  to  understand.  At  the  end  of  the  day 
she  had  opened  the  bosom  of  her  blouse  as  if  she  were 
smothering  and  said : 

"Dad,  if  it's  all  the  same  to  you,  I  would  rather 
celebrate  up,  than  down!" 

Connor's  had  left  a  bad  memory  where  only 
pure  ones  had  previously  gathered.  Something  had 
warned  her;  shocked  her.  She  had  tried  to  forget 
Connor's.  After  a  while  she  did  think  of  it  merely  as 
a  place  from  which  necessaries  had  to  be  obtained, 
and  from  which  one  should  then  depart  with  the  least 
possible  delay. 

And  now?  Well,  she  must  draw  her  mother's 
memory  away  from  that  lurid  place  where  innocent 
play  became  an  ugly  orgy.  It  was  one  thing  to  dance 
and  make  merry  at  the  Lodge;  but  how  hideous  it  had 
seemed  down  below! 

Presently  Glenn  saw  Morton  and  waved  her  hand 
in  welcome.  She  was  always  a  little  afraid  that  Con 
nor's  would  get  Sam;  it  never  had  done  so,  but  there 
was  something  about  Morton  that  made  her  fear  for 


i8  UNBROKEN  LINES 

him.  She  recalled  now  that  for  more  than  a  month 
the  mail  had  not  arrived. 

"Well?"  cried  Morton  from  a  distance,  "looking 
forme?" 

"Do  you  suppose,"  Glenn  called  back,  "that  I've 
been  looking  for  you  every  day  for  weeks  ? " 

"Don't  be  sassy!"  Morton  was  at  the  door,  now, 
and  dismounted.  "There's  a  box,  here,  for  you; 
sixteen  newspapers — your  Dad  certainly  does  go  in 
heavy  for  knowin'  everything  in  the  world — and  a 
letter!" 

"The  things  have  been  long  enough  getting  here." 
Glenn's  eyes  took  on  the  "mothering"  look  that  al 
ways  brooded  in  them  when  they  rested  on  helpless  or 
hurt  things,  and  for  all  his  bigness  and  independence 
Morton  made  an  appeal,  from  a  hidden  weakness,  to 
her  strength. 

"Mails  don't  matter  except  at  seed  time  and 
Christmas,"  he  flung  back. 

"How  about  birthdays,  Sam?" 

But  Morton  was  ready  for  her.  "That's  why  I'm 
here.  I  got  something  in  my  pocket  for  you,  Glenn, 
and  if  you  play  your  little  tricks — get  me  something 
to  eat,  let  me  tinkle  your  mandolin  a  bit,  and  rest — 
why  I'll  give  it  to  you!" 

"Not  for  sale!"  announced  Glenn,  tossing  her 
head.  "You  may  eat  and  rest  and  make  a  noise — 
for  nothing."  Then:  "Are  you  going  to  stay  all 
night?" 

"No.  There's  a  moon,  and  I  want  to  be  on  the 
trail  and  in  the  open.  Gosh!  I  said  this  mornin' 
down  in  the  canyon,  that  I'd  certainly  go  dippy  if  I 
stayed  on  another  week.  And  he  said  to  get  out. 


UNBROKEN  LINES  19 

and  so  I  did!  Then  I  remembered  the  mail  and 
went  back  to  Connor's — and  came  along.  I'm  bust- 
in'  tired." 

Sam  flung  himself  down  on  a  porch  chair.  He 
usually  approached  a  critical  situation  by  assuming 
that  his  listeners  knew  as  much  as  he  did.  It  was 
flattering  but  confusing. 

"Sam;  who  said  to  'get  out'?" 

Glenn  paused  in  the  doorway.  She  was  going  in 
to  prepare  food  but  the  words  caught  and  held  her. 
Just  then  Arnold  joined  them  from  around  the  house. 
He  did  not  approve  entirely  of  Morton — had  never 
felt  sure  about  him.  Consequently,  until  he  did, 
he  was  a  little  kinder  and  more  genial  than  otherwise 
he  might  have  been. 

"Better  come  in,  Sam,"  he  said,  "once  the  sun's 
gone,  the  cold  gets  you.  There's  a  big  wind  on  the 
way,  too." 

"Why,  Dad!"  Glenn  looked  around,  for  she  had 
never  yet  got  accustomed  to  her  father's  abnormal 
sense  of  hearing. 

"Surel  I  heard  it  back  among  the  pines.  The 
tops  had  caught  it.  Come  in,  children." 

They  followed  him  in  and  drew  close  to  the  hearth 
upon  which  the  fire  never  died. 

"People  and  weather  are  curious,"  Arnold  often 
said;  "they  come  when  least  expected.  It's  easier 
to  be  ready  for  them  than  to — hustle." 

Glenn  brought  food,  watched  Sam  eat  hungrily, 
and  then  repeated  her  question  as  if  she  hadn't  asked 
it  before,  while  he  tinkled  the  mandolin — his  eyes 
dreamy  and  full  of  content. 

" Sam;  who  said  to  'get  out'  ? " 


20  UNBROKEN  LINES 

"The  chap  in  the  haunted  cabin."  The  words 
trailed  along  on  a  badly  constructed  tune.  "It  was 
'long  about  three  weeks  ago  that  I  saw  smoke  coming 
out  of  the  chimney  as  I  was  riding  up  the  trail,  headed 
for  here.  It  just  naturally  made  me  creep  but  I  had 
to  look  in;  and  there,  by  thunder!  was  a  man  lying  on 
a  pine-needle  bed  thrashing  around  in  as  pretty  a 
fever  as  you  ever  saw.  Yelling,  he  was,  and  talkin' 
blitherin'  rot;  and  when  his  eyes  lit  on  me  he  named 
me  some  woman's  name  and  took  to  cussing  me  good 
and  proper  for  following  him  where  I  had  no  right  to 
follow.  The  place  was  stocked  up  pretty  well;  there 
was  plenty  of  wood,  though  the  fire  was  long  dead 
on  the  hearth.  Jumpin'  Jehoshaphat!  but  it  all  gave 
me  a  thrill — night  just  fallin'  and  that  crazy  chap 
heapin'  all  sorts  of  language  on  me,  just  as  he'd  been 
doin'  to  emptiness  before  I  got  there  to  catch  it." 

Sam  paused  to  tighten  up  a  string.  His  special 
interest  in  the  tale  now  lay  in  the  telling.  His  listen 
ers  were  transfixed.  Having  got  his  scenery  in  order 
and  the  nerves  of  his  companions  tense  he  could  af 
ford  to  take  breath.  He  was  modest  about  himself, 
but  at  this  point  he  was  obliged  to  take  the  centre  of 
the  stage,  and  he  became  artistic,  brief,  and  pictur 
esque. 

"Why,  Sam!"  gasped  Glenn,  "what  did  you  do?" 

"Lit  the  fire  and  brushed  up  some — after  givin* 
the  chap  water  and  trying  to  make  him  understand 
that  I  wasn't  any  lady  on  his  war  path." 

"And  after  that,  Sam?" 

"Took  care  of  him.  No  chance  of  goin'  for  a  doc 
tor,  for  the  next  day  he  had  a  fancy  for  dropping  off 
the  edge  of  the  precipice  that  was  right  handy  to  his 


UNBROKEN  LINES  21 

front  door.  You  couldn't  leave  a  man  with  that  bug 
possessin'  him,  even  to  get  a  doctor.  He  kept  telling 
me  real  earnest  and  confidential  that  he  had  got  to 
the  jumping-off  place  and  didn't  know  what  to  do. 
After  debatin'  with  him  to  no  purpose,  I  just  took 
him  round  the  middle  and  dared  him  to  leap!  By 
gosh!  after  that  he  plain  nestled  down  real  embar- 
rassin5  in  my  arms  and  fell  off  to  sleep  like  a  nice-be 
haved  baby.  He  wasn't  much  trouble  after  that, 
but  he  clung  like  a  leech.  If  I  left  him  he'd  call  after 
me  and  gave  me  to  understand  that  when  I  got  out  of 
sight  some  kind  of  power  pushed  him  again  to  the 
edge — but  when  I  was  near,  things  ran  along  smooth. 
He  was  some  Christmas  party,  I  tell  you!  I  had  to 
feed  my  horse  and  do  the  cooking  stunts  while  he 
slept.  And  by  thunder!  I  had  to  get  my  own  sleep 
holdin'  him  like  he  was  six  months  old." 

Arnold  had  not  spoken,  but  now  he  suddenly  broke 
in. 

"To  think  of  such  suffering  going  on  near  by  and 
us  eating  and  going  to  bed  as  if  nothing  had  been  the 
matter!  Two  fellow  creatures  beating  off  death  in 
the  canyon  and  us — not  knowing.  Morton,  did  he 
die?" 

Sam  was  getting  tired  of  the  excitement.  To  him 
it  was  an  episode  of  the  past;  the  sight  of  Glenn — 
the  warmth  and  the  food — had  dulled  him  to  the 
dramatic.  The  commonplace  now  lured  him. 

"No.  He  was  booked  to  get  well,  I  only  had  to 
hold  him  tight  while  he  was  off  his  trail.  He's  safe 
enough  now.  When  he  got  reasonable  he  was  an 
all-right  customer.  Said  he  had  only  stopped  at  the 
cabin  for  business.  He  was  headed  for  herej  some- 


22  UNBROKEN  LINES 

one  had  told  him  about  the  Lodge.  Said  he'd  written 
to  you." 

Arnold  went  to  the  table  where  lay  the  mail  and 
took  up  the  one  letter  from  the  mass  of  other  litera 
ture.  He  read  it,  quietly,  Glenn  and  Sam  waiting. 
Then: 

"Yes;  this  is  from  him.  MacDonald  Grey  he 
signs  himself.  Wants  to  spend  a  winter  up  where 
they  make  winter.  Now  what  in  thunder  does  he 
mean  by  that — 'where  they  make  winter'?  Sam; 
I  bet  the  fellow's  run  away  from  a  mad-house ! " 

"No;  whatever  he's  running  from  it  ain't  that." 
Morton  was  positive,  and  on  the  defensive.  "He's 
steadier  than  most,  now  that  he's  got  his  feet  planted. 
He's  a  writer.  Makes  them  yarns  you  like"  (here 
Morton  turned  to  Glenn);  "he  leans  to  ghost  tales 
and  mystery  thrillers.  Gosh!  him  and  me  used  to  set 
by  the  fire,  when  he  was  able  to  set  anywhere,  and 
he'd  tell  things  to  me  that  made  me  afraid  to  go  to 
bed.  It  was  great  stuff.  He  said  once  he  never 
saw  or  heard  of  a  haunted  thing  but  he  went  for  it. 
He  heard  of  the  canyon  cabin  at  Connor's — and  he 
went  for  it  on  his  way  up  here.  Gosh !  he  was  curious 
about  haunts.  He  said  most  places — streets,  houses, 
— folks,  even — are  haunted,  and  by  Gosh  he  proved 
it!  I  tell  you,  once  he  was  himself  he  was  good  com 
pany." 

Morton  laughed. 

"How  does  he  look,  Sam?"  Glenn's  eyes  were 
shining. 

"Pretty  measley.  I  say!  talk  about  bony;  he  is 
bone." 

"  Is  he  young  ? "    Arnold  put  in. 


UNBROKEN  LINES  23 

"Middlin';  and  then  again — he  ain't.  I  don't 
know  how  he  might  look  if  he  had  some  coverin'  on 
his  carcass;  all  carcasses  look  sort  of  old.  This 
mornin'  he  happened  to  think  about  me  and  when  I 
told  him  what  I  was,  and  did,  he  simply  ordered  me 
out  and  said  he  was  going  to  toddle  up  to  the  Lodge 
in  a  day  or  two.  I  told  him  I'd  warn  you,  and  send 
a  horse  down  the  trail." 

Arnold  walked  about  restlessly.  "I  think  I'd 
better  start  down  the  canyon  to-night,"  he  said.  "I 
cannot  sleep  with  that  fellow  staying  on  alone  in  the 
cabin.  Some  day  that  teetering  old  shack  is  just 
naturally  going  to  slip  over  the  edge.  I  wouldn't 
like  to  have  it  on  my  conscience  if  it  slipped  to-night." 

But  Morton  and  Glenn  argued  him  out  of  this. 

"I  reckon,"  said  Sam,  "that  he  wants  to  come  up 
the  regular  way.  He's  pullin'  himself  together  and 
he's  rather  edgy  about  bein'  thought  an  ass.  You 
see  I  told  him  what  folks  would  name  him,  sneaking 
into  that  cabin  and  making  trouble  for  us.  I  didn't 
mean  to  hurt  his  feelings,  I  did  it  to  spunk  him  up, 
but  he's  touchy." 

"Well — come  to-morrow,"  Arnold  concluded,  "I'll 
ride  down  and  see  how  things  are  getting  on.  I'll 
take  his  letter  along  as  an  introduction." 

At  nine  o'clock,  with  a  full  moon  lighting  the  trail, 
Sam  prepared  to  go  on.  Glenn  stood  with  him  be 
side  his  horse. 

"Sam;  it  was  splendid — what  you  did  for  the 
stranger,"  she  said,  softly,  raising  her  eyes.  Morton 
mistook  the  mothering  look  for  something  else.  He 
flushed. 

"Shucks!"  was  all  he  replied. 


24  UNBROKEN  LINES 

"Weren't  you  ever  afraid,  Sam?" 

"No.  I  wasn't  afraid,  but  it  was  kind  of  solemn. 
I  got  to  thinkin'  of  things  in  a  queer  way.  It  seemed 
as  if  I  was  fightin'  something  off — death,  for  one 
thing — and  the  man  on  the  bed  took  to  meaning  a  lot 
to  me.  He  seemed  mine!  And  then  I  passed  the 
time  by  tryin'  to  fix  things  that  meant  the  most — 
and  setting  aside  things  that  didn't.  It  was  solemn 
but  I  wouldn't  have  missed  it." 

"What  things,  Sam?" 

"Well,  Connor's  for  one  thing.  Connor's  don't 
matter,  really;  Connor's  is  a  joke,  but  you  don't  set 
much  stock  in  jokes  when  you're  up  against  the  kind 
of  thoughts  that  came  in  the  cabin.  And  then — 
other  things  that  a  fellow  does — when  he  lets  go — 
but — "  here  Sam  mastered  his  confusion — "the  thing 
that  did  almighty  matter,  Glenn,  was  you!" 

"Me,  Sam?" 

"Yes,  you.  You  came  real  plain  to  me — and  you 
fitted  in.  You  fitted  in  and  I  saw  you  doin'  things, 
the  right  things;  and  then  I  knew  you  was  the  fitting- 
in  sort.  You  just  filled  up  all  the  emptiness,  and  I 
knew  that  you  meant  most — of  all!  I  don't  think  I 
had  ever  really  thought  before,  Glenn." 

Had  Sam  not  been  transformed  by  his  recent  ex 
perience  in  the  canyon,  Glenn  would  have  scoffed  at 
him  now;  but  he  had  touched  her  sympathy,  her 
tenderness,  her  sense  of  right.  She  looked  mutely 
at  him  and  did  not  laugh. 

"Gosh!"  Morton  plunged  on,  "I  know  I  sound 
madder  than  that  chap  in  the  cabin  ever  sounded, 
but  I  just  had  to  blurt  it  out.  There  are  times  and 
things  that  are  so  big  you  can't  tackle  them,  and  you 


UNBROKEN  LINES  25 

might  as  well  let  'em  go.  You  do  mean  the  most  of 
anything,  Glenn.  I'd  do  anything  on  God's  earth 
for  you,  knowing  Fd  be  the  better  for  it,  even  if  I 
never  got  within  gun-shot  of  you.  I've  seen  you  at 
last  and  felt  that  I  knew  the  meaning  of  you;  and 
that's  something.  You  came  out  plain  in  the  haunted 
cabin;  I  reckon  you  haunt  me." 

Never  in  all  her  life  had  Glenn  been  so  touched. 
Her  afternoon  had  set  every  nerve  to  quivering; 
her  tenderness  brooded  over  everyone,  and  now  it 
glorified  Morton. 

"Old,  Sam!"  she  said,  "it's  just  as  if  you  had  shed 
something  that  had  always  hidden  the  real  you. 
Before  this  you  have  seemed — well,  like  things 
that  have  always  been  in  my  life — things  that  were, 
and  now  you  seem  you;  and  I  will  have  to  get — ac 
quainted!  But  the  new  thing  that  you  are  matters 
much — much.  I  am  going  to  hold  that  right  up  be 
fore  me  all  the  time.  Does  that  help,  Sam?" 

"It  does— by  God!" 

Then  Sam  drew  something  from  his  pocket;  it  was 
a  ring.  A  plain,  narrow  band  of  gold  with  a  small 
blue  stone  set  in  tiny  brilliants.  Glenn  looked  upon 
the  pretty  thing  as  a  child  might;  she  reached  out  for 
it — took  and  laughed  at  its  beauty,  from  pure  delight. 

"Will  you  give  me  a  kiss,  Glenn;  it  being  your 
birthday  and — and  all  that?"  whispered  Sam. 

Suddenly  the  joyousness  fled  from  the  girl's  face. 
She  sensed  a  bargain;  a  compact  for  which  she  had  no 
desire.  She  looked  up,  all  kindness,  but  with  the 
old,  wise  look  in  her  eyes. 

"I — I  cannot  wear  it,  Sam;  not  now.  I'd  like  to 
keep  it,  to  look  at — if  you  will  let  me." 


26  UNBROKEN  LINES 

"But  if  you  change  your  mind?"  Morton  looked 
hurt — disappointed. 

"Fillet  you  know,  Sam." 

"And— and  the  kiss,  Glenn?" 

"I'll — I'll  keep  that,  too;  until  I  change  my  mind!" 

Glenn  drew  back  as  Morton  threw  himself  on  his 
horse  and  dashed  off.  She  waited  to  wave  to  him  in 
the  friendly,  old  way,  but  he  did  not  look  back. 
Glenn  put  the  ring  in  her  pocket,  gave  a  tired  little 
sigh,  and  went  indoors. 

Her  father  stood  under  the  hanging  lamp,  which 
he  had  lighted,  and  in  the  hollow  of  his  hands  lay 
something  that  glittered  like  captured  sunlight. 

"It's  got  here  in  time!"  he  exclaimed,  exultingly,  as 
Glenn  entered.  "I  was  lying  awake  last  night  fear 
ing  that  it  might  not.  And,  by  the  Lord  Harry,  it 
is  handsomer  than  it  looked  in  the  catalogue;  and 
often  things  do  not.  Remember  that  fancy  vest, 
Glenn?" 

"What  is  it,  Dad  ?"  The  girl  bent  over  the  glow 
ing  handful. 

"It's  an  amber  necklace!  The  book  said  'molten 
sunbeams' — not  half  bad,  either.  Let  me  see  how  it 
looks  on  you." 

The  big,  gentle  hands  clasped  the  beads  around 
the  slim,  brown  throat. 

"You  look — yes,  you  do,  girl! — you  look  like  an 
Indian  princess  come  back  to  what  is  eternally  her 


own." 


Arnold  held  Glenn  at  arm's  length  and  surveyed 
her,  deliberately.  She  seemed  different  to  him — 
changed. 

"I'm  afraid" — Glenn's  eyes  dimmed — "I'm  afraid 


UNBROKEN  LINES  27 

I'm  going  to  cry,  Dad.  I  do  sometimes — when  I'm 
too  happy." 

"You  are  happy,  girl?" 

"Oh!  yes,  Dad." 

"And  I  haven't  ever  driven  you,  have  I?  I've 
left  you  free,  haven't  I  ? " 

"Why,  yes!  you  funny  Dad.  You've  even  left  me 
free  to  be  a — a  little,  wild,  bad  beastie,  at  times." 

"Your  mother  wanted  that  I  should — if  you  were  a 
girl.  The  way  I've  come  to  look  at  it,  Glenn,  is  like 
this:  We  often  learn  the  biggest  sort  of  lessons  when 
we  fall  the  hardest.  Everyone  has  a  right  even  to 
fall,  if  the  fall  is  due  him." 

"You  funny,  funny  old  Dad.  And  now  I  know 
I'm  going  to  laugh." 

Arnold  was  deadly  serious.  He  did  not  relinquish 
his  hold  upon  his  girl. 

"Glenn,"  he  went  on,  "something — maybe  it  is 
these  beads — makes  you  look  as  if  you  were — a 
woman.  Being  a  man,  I  don't  know  how  to  put  it, 
but,  child,  I  want  you  to  know  that  being  a  woman 
doesn't  keep  you  from  being  a — a  human  being;  and 
there  isn't  a  thing  on  earth,  I  don't  care  what  any 
one  says,  that  ought  to  clutch  and  hold  you  if  it 
kills  the  human  in  you!  I  don't  know  why  I'm  say 
ing  this  to  you,  but  it  was  in  me  and  I  had  to  say  it." 
Then  he  drew  Glenn  close;  he  saw  the  longing  for  him 
in  her  eyes.  She  rested  upon  his  breast  as  she  had 
done  in  her  piteous,  lonely  childhood. 

"I  know  why  you  say  it,  Dad,"  she  whispered. 
"You  want  to  keep  me  free — even  if  I  am  a  woman — 
for  my  mother's  sake.  Why,  Dad  dear,  leaving  me 
free  has  made  me  free.  I'm  like  the  little  chipmunk 


28  UNBROKEN  LINES 

on  whose  neck  you  put  the  rubber  band  so  that  you 
would  know  him.  He  went  away,  stayed  away  a 
long  time,  but  he  came  back,  always.  You  need 
never  be  afraid,  dear.  Something — maybe  it  is  the 
light  that  came  with  my  star — will  make  me  find  the 
right  way  back,  no  matter  what  happens.  You 
think  I've  missed  something  because  my  mother — 
went.  Perhaps  I  have;  but  I  don't  know  what  it  is! 
You've  filled  all  the — the  chinks,  my  dear,  old  Dad." 

Arnold  looked  thoughtful.  "This  day  has  sort 
of  pulled  loose  ends  together,  girl, "  he  said,  standing 
by  his  chamber  door.  "The  Pitkinses  didn't  with 
hold  a  friendly  hand — after  your  mother  went.  You 
and  Polly  learned  to  walk  together  while  the  mother 
did  for  you  both.  If  you  have  a  call  to  share  with 
Polly  now,  I'm  not  going  to  say  nay — I  wish — —  " 

"What,  Dad?" 

"I  wish,  by  thunder,  that  Sam  would  take  a  liking 
to  Polly.  The  girl's  slipshod  but  there's  the  making 
of  something  in  her." 

They  were  quiet  for  a  few  minutes.  Life  had  al 
ways  meant  these  strange  upheavals  to  them.  There 
would  be  long  periods  when  they  travelled  on  a 
bright  plane;  then  would  come  a  change — lifting 
them  together  to  a  higher  altitude.  Then  would 
come  a  time  of  readjustment;  and  so  on  again  into 
the  sunlight  with  the  blessed  comradeship. 

"It  isn't  ever  going  to  be  'little  girl'  Glenn  again!" 
Arnold  gave  a  laugh. 

"No  sir!  But  a  nice,  big  lady  with  a  necklace  on 
her  throat." 

They  were  emerging  from  their  doubts. 

"You'll  have  to  be  more  polite  to  me,  Dad." 


UNBROKEN  LINES  29 

"Now  that  I  know  I  cannot  hurt  you,  girl,  I  may 
take  to — to  bullying  you!" 

"Try  it,  Dad;  just  try  it!" 

They  were  side  by  side  at  last. 

"Go  to  bed,  girl!" 

"I  was  about  to  order  you  there,  Dad." 

"Good-night,  girl!" 

Glenn  took  his  face  in  her  hands.  "I  see  you — as 
my  mother  saw  you,"  she  whispered,  fondly. 

"How,  girl?" 

"As  the  safest  and  best  thing  in  life." 

Then,  suddenly,  as  things  often  happen,  she  said: 

"Dad,  I'm  going  to  get  Polly  Pitkins  down  here  for 
the  winter!" 

"What  for?"  Arnold  recognized  the  old  obliga 
tion  toward  the  Pitkinses  but  he  always  recoiled  from 
contact  with  them. 

"I  don't  know.  But  I  always — when  I  am  happy 
— think  of  poor  Polly — she  has  so  little." 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  next  morning  Arnold  left  the  Lodge  before 
daylight.  When  he  started  out  he  looked  like 
part  of  a  procession.  He  rode  his  own  horse 
followed  by  another;  and  a  shaggy  little  pack  horse 
brought  up  the  rear. 

"I'll  get  the  bedroom  ready,  Dad.  Which  one 
shall  the  stranger  have?" 

"The  best  one — the  east  chamber  is  the  warmest 
for  it  has  that  south  window  we  patched  on." 

"Do  you  want  Rajah,  Dad?" 

"No;  call  him  back.  I  look  like  a  Noah's-ark  out 
fit  as  it  is." 

"Come  back,  sir!"  Glenn  commanded,  and  if  ever 
a  dog  showed  disgust  Rajah  did  as  he  turned  tail. 

"You  ought  to  be  back  by  middle  afternoon,  Dad." 

Arnold  was  growing  dim  in  the  strange  light  of  the 
morning. 

"Depends  on  the  stranger,"  came  the  words  up  the 
trail.  "Like  as  not  he  don't  know  how  to  ride  horse 
back.  I  may  have  to  hold  him  on." 

Glenn  laughed  at  this  and  went  indoors.  The  strain 
of  the  hardest  day  of  the  year  was  past.  She  was  her 
self  again — cheery,  carefree,  happy.  And  yet — not 
quite  the  same.  A  girl  cannot  reach  eighteen,  even 
among  such  surroundings  as  Glenn's,  without  Na 
ture  having  its  way  with  her.  Her  consciousness 
of  herself  the  previous  day  had  been  a  new  sensa- 

30 


UNBROKEN  LINES  31 

tion;  it  was  a  coming  to  the  surface  of  something  that 
had,  from  the  beginning,  been  in  the  making.  Nor 
mally,  safely,  Glenn  had  come  to  womanhood  with 
out  shock.  Then  her  mother's  story  had  had  a 
deeper  effect  upon  her  than  she  had  at  first  realized. 
Only  after  hours  of  thought  did  she  really  compre 
hend  its  true  significance.  She  had  spoken  sincerely 
to  her  father  when  she  said,  tenderly,  that  he  had 
given  her  mother  to  her;  she  had  been  honest,  too, 
in  her  sudden  desire  to  accept  her  mother  as  she  saw 
and  felt  that  her  father  was  doing;  but  she  was  glad — 
she  knew  it  now — that  her  mother  was  dead!  After 
a  night's  sleep  she  had  awakened  with  that  conscious 
ness  of  relief.  She  felt  older  than  her  mother  had 
ever  been;  keener  as  to  consequences.  She  knew 
that  she  never  would  have  been  what  she  was  had 
her  mother  lived!  At  first  the  thought  frightened 
her,  she  shuddered  at  her  disloyalty — then  she  was 
ashamed.  But  she  had  thrashed  it  out  to  a  finish — 
she  and  her  father  stood  guard  over  that  poor,  little, 
dead  and  gone  mother — she  must  stay  dead!  Only 
so  could  she  be  safe;  only  so  could  Glenn  do  her  duty 
by  her.  To  think  of  her  as  alive  was  to  shrink  from 
her. 

Arnold  was  to  be  spared  the  knowledge  of  the 
cruelty  of  his  girl's  youth;  but  it  tore  the  girl,  herself, 
brutally  now  that  the  strength  of  her  father's  faith 
was  for  the  moment  withdrawn. 

After  .Arnold  passed  from  sight  the  girl  set  the 
house  in  order,  leaving  to  the  last  the  eastern  cham 
ber.  When  she  attacked  that — and  no  other  word 
expressed  her  shaking  of  pillows  into  spotless  cases, 
and  piling  of  warm,  red  blankets  upon  the  bed — she 


32  UNBROKEN  LINES 

sang  at  her  work  in  that  chanting,  intimate  fashion 
that  gave  to  inanimate  things  such  a  whimsical 
reality.  She  laid  the  fire  upon  the  broad  hearth  as 
if  performing  a  religious  rite.  She  implored  the  little 
sticks  to  burn;  she  laughingly  encouraged  them  to 
devour  the  larger  ones.  Only  when  the  first  log 
glowed  ruddily  did  she  leave  the  fire  to  evolve,  ac 
cording  to  the  scientific  laws  that  governed  it.  Then 
she  tiptoed  from  the  room,  closing  the  door  quietly 
behind  her.  Already  she  had  accepted  the  new  pres 
ence  in  the  house  as  an  accomplished  fact. 

She  went  to  her  room  at  the  far  end  of  the  passage 
and  stood  before  her  mirror.  She  gazed  at  herself 
as  if  she  were  a  new  creature;  unconsciously  she  was 
estimating  her  appearance  from  the  expected  stran 
ger's  viewpoint.  Her  soul-tremble  of  the  morning 
held  now  no  place  in  her  thought. 

"These  beads,"  she  murmured,  "look  queer  with 
the  trousers/'  She  unfastened  them  and  put  them 
lovingly  in  a  drawer. 

"I'll  wear  dresses  and  beads  together,"  she  con 
cluded. 

Then,  of  a  sudden,  she  was  not  seeing  her  reflec 
tion  although  she  was  looking  full  at  it.  A  thought, 
an  impulse,  was  taking  possession  of  her;  she  must 
not  advance,  nor  retreat — it  would  claim  her  soon ! 

Presently  she  smiled  and  nodded.  It  was  all  as 
clear  as  if  she  had  long  planned  it.  She  would  pack 
a  basket  with  food,  take  the  dogs,  and  go  down  the 
road  toward  the  cabin  in  the  canyon ! 

"Toward,"  was  what  Glenn  thought,  but  her  quick 
imagination  leaped  ahead.  By  cutting  through  a 
deep  clump  of  pine — where  the  trees  grew  straight 


UNBROKEN  LINES  33 

and  close  and  of  even  height,  like  a  picked  regiment — 
she  could  reach  a  short-cut  trail  that  would  lessen 
the  distance  through  the  canyon  by  many  miles. 
What  a  huge  joke  it  would  be  to  reach  the  cabin  be 
fore  her  father.  What  an  adventure  to  meet  the 
stranger  first! 

On  second  thought  Glenn  decided  that  she  would 
not  appear  in  the  cabin  until  her  father  arrived,  but 
she  would  be  under  cover  and  keep  her  eyes  and  ears 
open  to  whatever  might  occur  about  the  haunted  spot. 

As  soon  as  the  plan  materialized  Glenn  rushed  to 
the  doing  of  it.  She  packed  a  luncheon  and  care 
fully  filled  two  bottles  with  hot  coffee.  Indeed  as 
she  worked  she  smiled  to  see  how  intuitively  she  pre 
pared  for  two — "and  the  dogs"  she  thoughtfully 
added  by  way  of  compromise. 

When  all  was  ready  she  strapped  the  basket  on  her 
back  and  went  outside.  It  was  a  bright  and  golden 
morning  now,  and  the  girl  stood  near  the  house  and 
lifted  her  head,  turning  it  this  way  and  that. 

"Where's  that  wind,"  she  thought,  "that  Dad  was 
hearing  last  night?"  But  she  did  not  really  scoff. 
Well  she  knew  how  the  mountain  wind  came  upon 
them,  often  like  a  veritable  thief.  Stealing  around 
the  peaks;  creeping  through  lonely  valleys  and  hid 
ing  in  forests,  it  would  suddenly  descend  upon  a 
peaceful  day  or  night,  shattering  it  to  fragments  as 
one  stood  and  wondered. 

But  this  morning  was  as  still  as  the  previous  day 
had  been,  and  there  was  a  golden  quality  to  it  that 
suggested  warmth  and  joyousness.  The  dogs  cap 
ered  about  Glenn.  Even  Rajah,  seeing  a  chance  for 
travel,  forgot  his  dignity  and  capered.  Bending  for- 


34  UNBROKEN  LINES 

ward,  he  would  quickly  draw  his  body  backward, 
while  his  huge  front  paws  held  to  the  ground.  His 
eyes  were  comically  beseeching.  Having  been  for 
saken  by  his  master,  he  wanted  to  prove  his  faith  in 
his  mistress. 

"Come  on,  Rajah,"  cried  Glenn;  "You  may  be 
necessary.  This  is  a  man-hunt." 

Rajah  at  once  took  his  place;  now  stately  and  calm. 
Not  for  him  were  wild  gambols  through  the  under 
brush.  His  duty  was  to  be  ready  for  commands;  he 
must  be  keen  to  answer  any  urge  of  that  sense  of  his 
which  penetrated  the  unseen;  guided  him  to  succour 
and  defend. 

Rags  and  Don,  the  ridiculous  Newfoundland  pups, 
scrambled  about  upsetting  each  other  and  endanger 
ing  Rajah's  poise. 

^ '"You  foolish  babies,  come,  too,"  Glenn  called. 
"You  are  dusty,  awkward  nuisances,  but  you  are  so 
funny."  The  pups  whined  with  pleasure  and  tore 
off.  " 

This  was  no  mere  errand  to  the  clearing;  this  was 
far-faring  and  promised  adventure.  The  party 
started  on  down  the  sunny  road  that  lay  like  a  broad 
path  from  the  heights  to  the  canyon.  The  puppies 
began  their  usual  idiotic  pranks.  They  hustled 
off  into  bushes  and  behind  rocks,  skirmishing  back 
with  all  the  appearance  of  having  seen  and  heard  that 
which  had  caused  their  hair  to  stand  upright.  Glenn 
laughed.  They  were  so  absurd — that  pair  of  incon 
sequent  pups.  Rajah  hung  his  head;  the  pups  bored 
him. 

Keeping  to  the  middle  of  the  highway,  swinging 
along  in  the  slow,  even  stride  of  a  true  mountaineer, 


UNBROKEN  LINES  35 

Glenn  began  to  chant  as  another  might  have  sung. 
She  crooned,  as  the  Indians  do,  her  impressions  as 
she  went  along. 

"Oh!  road  that  winds  and  curves — do  you  hate  to 
slip  away  into  the  cold  dark  of  the  canyon?  Shame 
on  you!  Cling  to  the  tall  rocks,  keep  the  sound  of 
the  river  in  your  ears;  at  the  other  end  there  is  light. 
Be  brave!  Cling  to  the  tall  wall  of  rocks;  keep  the 
river — roo — roo — roo — in  your  ears ! " 

Singing — breaking  now  and  then  into  a  whistle  to 
recall  the  dogs — the  girl  came  to  the  point  where  the 
road  dipped  suddenly  into  shadow.  A  massive  wall 
of  gray  rock  flanked  the  right  side;  a  cavernous  depth 
yawned  on  the  other,  from  whose  unseen  depths 
arose  the  noise  of  the  maddened  river  hurling  itself 
along  against  every  obstacle  in  its  frenzy  to  reach  the 
wide,  open,  sun-lighted  spaces  and  the  sea. 

Glenn  no  longer  sang.  She  walked  with  her  hand 
on  Rajah's  head;  the  puppies  forsook  their  senseless 
circling,  and  trotted  sedately — close  to  their  mis 
tress.  It  was  one  thing  to  play  at  bravery  in  the 
sunshine,  quite  another  to  be  stalwart  in  this  dark 
and  lonely  place  with  that  awful  noise  deafening  one. 
And  where  was  the  day  with  its  hint  of  summer?  The 
cold  sent  a  chill  to  the  heart.  Then,  farther  on,  the 
wall  of  rock  gave  way  to  a  wood  whose  blackness  was 
specked  with  sunlight  from  the  day  that  still  existed 
far,  far  above  the  dim  place. 

Glenn  turned  into  this  forest.  Beyond  it  the  trail 
led  to  the  canyon  cabin.  Rags  and  Don  darted 
ahead  again.  This  was  less  awesome  than  the  road. 
They  were  gone  for  five  minutes  or  so;  then  they 
came  scrambling  back  with  every  appearance  of 


36  UNBROKEN  LINES 

having  been  frightened  to  the  torture-point.  Even 
Rajah  was  impressed  this  time. 

"You  fool  dogs!"  Glenn  exclaimed,  shivering  a 
bit  in  spite  of  herself,  "if  you  hadn't  been  acting  like 
curs  all  the  way,  I'd  pay  some  attention  to  you  now. 
Stop!  Don't  you  dare  whine  and  slink.  Up  there, 
Don;  you  too,  Rags!" 

The  dogs  obeyed  to  the  extent  of  standing  on  all 
four  feet,  but  they  refused  to  go  ahead.  Their  eyes 
glanced  down  the  dim  trail  and  then  turned  piteously 
to  the  girl. 

Rajah  waited  for  the  word  of  command.  He 
knew  his  duty,  but  he  respected  authority. 

"Good,  old  chap!"  Glenn  said;  "Go  on,  I'll 
follow." 

Rajah  was  soon  out  of  sight,  but  the  crackling  of 
underbrush  as  he  plunged  ahead  was  guide  enough 
for  the  girl,  with  her  two  dogs  now  keeping  as  close 
to  her  heels  as  possible. 

The  minutes  dragged  along.  Rajah  did  not  re 
turn;  nor  did  he  give  his  call  for  which  Glenn  was 
waiting  while  her  breath  came  quick  and  hard.  She 
knew  that,  if  there  were  cause,  Rajah  would  call. 

Suddenly  the  awaited  sound  broke  the  deathly 
stillness!  With  outstretched  arms  the  girl  dashed 
ahead ;  she  took  not  one  false  step.  She  made  straight 
for  that  quick,  alarmed  summons;  and  in  a  few 
minutes  she  saw — in  a  little  open  spot  under  an  over 
hanging  rock — the  great  dog  lying  at  full  length  be 
side  the  body  of  a  man ! 

Glenn  ran  forward  and  bent  over  the  prostrate 
form.  She  was  not  conscious  of  any  sensation  at  all, 
but  she  worked  like  a  machine  that  was  guided  by 


UNBROKEN  LINES  37 

unerring  wisdom.  She  saw,  in  a  moment,  that  the 
stranger  was  not  dead,  but  had  either  fainted  or  been 
stunned,  perhaps  by  a  fall.  His  head  was  near  the 
rock;  his  hat  had  fallen  off;  and  a  gunny  sack,  which 
had  been  strapped  across  his  shoulders,  was  twisted 
to  one  side. 

Glenn  worked  quickly.  She  ran  to  a  near-by 
spring  for  water;  she  bathed  the  white,  thin,  up 
turned  face  until  she  saw  the  eyelids  quiver.  She 
chafed  the  limp  hands;  she  implored  the  helpless  man 
to  make  an  effort;  and  when  he  responded  by  slight 
twitches  of  the  mouth  she  opened  her  luncheon 
basket  and  took  out  a  bottle  of  coffee  which,  happily, 
was  still  warm.  With  firm  and  patient  hand  she  held 
the  bottle  to  the  man's  lips  and  saw  with  relief  that 
about  one  drop  out  of  ten  went  gurgling  down  his 
throat;  the  others  did  not  matter,  although,  even  in 
that  tense  moment,  the  sight  of  the  dark  fluid  on  the 
white  chin  suggested  unpleasant  things. 

Rajah  looked  on  sedately  and  intelligently;  the 
other  dogs  had  drawn  near  and  sat  on  their  haunches 
contemplating  the  unusual  scene  with  bland  puppy 
eyes. 

Then,  after  what  seemed  hours,  the  man  gazed  full 
into  the  face  over  his  own!  His  head  was  now  on 
Glenn's  lap.  There  was  a  struggle,  evidently,  to  grip 
and  hold  the  moment  of  consciousness.  Something 
must  have  been  wrenched  from  the  effort,  however, 
for  the  lips  smiled  grimly  before  a  blank  nothingness 
claimed  them  again.  This  time  the  faintness,  or 
whatever  it  was,  passed  quickly.  Again  the  eyes 
opened,  the  lips  and  chin  stiffened.  Then  the  most 
inane  words  came  from  the  man's  mouth. 


38  UNBROKEN  LINES 

"Thanks,  my  boy,"  he  said,  "but  will  you  give  me 
my  hat?  A  man  and  his  hat,  you  know!  Queer, 
isn't  it,  how  they  go  together — out  of  doors?" 

Glenn  was  so  surprised  at  the  foolish  demand  that 
without  replying  she  simply  reached  for  the  hat  and 
laid  it  on  the  man's  chest,  since  to  place  it  where  it 
rightfully  belonged  was,  for  the  moment,  an  impossi 
bility. 

She  knew  who  he  was;  she  had  the  advantage  and 
it  gave  her  assurance  as  she  regarded  him.  There 
was  another  brief  lapsing,  during  which  more  coffee 
was  offered,  and,  this  time,  swallowed.  Presently 
the  prostrate  patient  protested. 

"  For  mercy's  sake  don't  drown  me  with  coffee.  I'm 
all  right  now.  Help  me  up,  will  you  ? "  The  irritable 
tone:  the  confusion  as  to  her  sex  made  Glenn  smile. 

She  assisted  him  to  an  upright  position;  even  put 
his  hat,  mechanically,  on  his  head;  then  she  laughed 
outright.  The  strain  was  lessening  and  the  whole 
situation  had  a  humorous  appeal.  The  white,  coffee- 
stained  face;  the  cap  awry;  the  weak  body  braced 
against  the  rock,  the  semi-circle  of  solemn  dogs  in 
the  dim,  shadowy  space;  and  the  deep  silence,  all 
combined  to  unsteady  the  nerves.  The  laugh  irri 
tated  the  recovering  senses  of  the  stranger:  he  looked 
angry. 

"I  must  seem  an  ass!  For  Heaven's  sake  call  off 
the  dogs,  my  good  fellow;  they  make  me  feel  as  if 
I  were  a  ghost  and  that  they  were  watching  for  a 
chance  to  prove  it." 

Glenn  gave  an  order  to  the  puppies.  Rajah 
needed  none.  His  immediate  duty  was  done;  he 
greatly  preferred  a  noon-day  nap. 


UNBROKEN  LINES  39 

The  situation  was  becoming  uncomfortable,  and 
the  man  with  a  sudden  sense  of  gratitude  took  it  in 
hand.  He  began  to  talk — it  didn't  matter  what  he 
said — words  would  ease  things  up  until  he  could  get 
on  his  feet.  The  boy  near  him  must  be  a  factor  in 
his  immediate  future,  so  it  were  wise  to  propitiate 
him.  The  sudden  silences  were  to  be  avoided:  they 
emphasized  the  situation. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  he  asked,  and  indeed 
there  was  genuine  interest  in  the  question. 

"Making  a  fire.     We're  going  to  have  lunch." 

The  sparks  were  already  lighting  the  gloom;  the 
smell  of  wood  and  food  gave  heart  and  courage  to 
them  both. 

"It — it  seems  quite  unreal,  you  know,"  the  man 
murmured,  and  gave  a  nervous  laugh.  "Being  ill, 
and  alone  so  much,  has  played  the  mischief  with  my 
nerves.  I  swear  I  wouldn't  risk  my  oath  now  on  the 
thing  I  think  I  see.  You  and  the  dogs  and  the  fire 
are  real,  aren't  you?  You  are  what  you  seem?" 

"I  don't  know  what  I  seem" — Glenn  had  her  back 
to  him;  she  was  balancing  a  tin  pail  filled,  apparently, 
with  tormenting  odours,  over  the  blaze — "I'm  real, 
so  are  the  dogs,  and  the  things  to  eat.  Now,  if 
you  will  try  to  stop  talking  and  will  take  food  and — 
and  some  more  coffee,  inside  of  you,  you'll  be  able 
to  go  on,  or  back,  or  wherever  you  want  to  go.  You 
can't  stay  here — and  the  days  are  short." 

"  Days  ?     I  thought  it  was  night." 

"No — it's  a  little  past  noon-time.  The  canyon  is 
always  full  of  darkness.  But  you  mustn't  talk  until 
you've  taken  this  food. " 

For  a  few  minutes  the  man  obeyed,  and  ate,  at 


40  UNBROKEN  LINES 

first  tremblingly,  then  more  naturally.  With  innate 
courtesy  Glenn  also  helped  herself  and  the  dogs  to  a 
share  of  the  meal,  and  thus  kept  matters  normal. 

Suddenly  the  voice — much  stronger  now — broke 
forth  : 

"I  wonder  whether  you  can  guess  all  that  this 
means  to  a  fellow  who  had  given  up  ?" 

Glenn  was  nibbling  at  a  chicken  bone. 

"Why  had  you  given  up?"  she  asked.  Her  eyes 
were  lowered;  the  stranger  for  the  first  time  noticed 
what  a  handsome  boy  it  was  who  had  saved  his  life. 

"Well — I'd  done  a  mad  kind  of  thing  and  I  lost 
courage.  I  don't  rightfully  belong  here,  and  I  fancy 
I  have  been  about  as  sick  as  a  man  can  be — and  pull 
out.  A  young  chap  found  me  in  a  rickety  cabin — 
a  kind  of  toy  house  tacked  on  to  the  edge  of  a  cavern 
about  a  mile  deep.  He  saved  my  life;  just  stuck  to 
me  until  I  was  able  to — to  kick  him  out.  I  couldn't 
hang  on  to  him  any  longer.  I  found,  after  he  went, 
that  I  wasn't  quite  so  strong  as  I  had  imagined,  and 
then  last  night"  (the  man's  face  twitched)  "I  had 
a  dream!  After  that — I  couldn't  stand  the  place. 
I'm  MacDonald  Grey,"  the  weak  voice  concluded 
faintly. 

Glenn  raised  her  eyes  to  the  thin,  quizzical  face. 
The  coffee  stains  caught  her  attention;  she  wanted  to 
laugh,  but  held  the  impulse  in  check. 

"Yes:  I  knew  you.  You  see  Sam  Morton  came 
and  told  us. 

"I'm  Mary  Glenn  Arnold,"  she  said,  evenly.  She 
added  the  rarely  used  "Mary"  to  impress  her  sex  upon 
the  amazed  stranger. 

"The  devil  you  are!"  he  gasped.     Her  words  had 


UNBROKEN  LINES  41 

stimulated  him  more  than  the  food  or  drink  had. 
"I — I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  added  and  then,  he  noted 
the  form,  eyes,  colouring  of  his  companion  and  stran 
gled  the  second  explosive  as  it  rose  to  his  lips.  What 
a  fool  he  had  been!  "I — I  was  making  for  your 
place,"  he  said  instead;  and  with  a  deference  that 
amused  Glenn. 

"And  the  entire  Arnold  outfit  is  on  the  trail  for 
you,"  she  lightly  added.  She  felt  herself  mistress  of 
the  situation  and  it  was  exhilarating.  "But  you 
mustn't  talk  any  more,"  she  went  on.  "You  will 
need  all  your  strength  and  mine  to  reach  the  road  in 
time  to  meet  my  father.  He  has  horses;  he  went 
down  to  get  you.  When  he  finds  that  you  have  left 
the  cabin,  he'll  hurry  back. 

"  Come,  get  up !  So.  Now,  then,  lean  on  me  and 
— and  don't  open  your  mouth." 

Grey  staggered  to  his  feet  without  question.  He 
realized  the  importance  of  absolute  obedience.  He 
was  dizzy  and  faint,  but  he  clutched  the  firm  shoul 
der  offered  for  his  support,  and  found,  to  his  relief, 
that  he  could  walk  more  steadily  than  he  had  ex 
pected  to.  There  were  moments,  however,  when 
endurance  seemed  no  longer  possible.  There  were 
obstacles  in  the  way  that  proved  almost  insurmount 
able.  Before  a  tree  trunk,  across  the  trail,  Grey 
paused,  the  beads  of  sweat  standing  on  his  face. 

"I'm  afraid — I  cannot!"  he  moaned.  His  legs 
felt  like  lead;  to  lift  them  seemed  beyond  his  powers. 

"The  road  is  just  ahead,"  urged  Glenn.  "See. 
I'll  get  over — you  scramble." 

And  Grey  scrambled.  It  did  not  seem  absurd. 
That  primitive  use  of  hands  and  arms,  as  well  as 


42  UNBROKEN  LINES 

legs,  appeared  most  sensible  and  dignified.  He  was 
on  the  other  side  at  last  and  dropped  down,  panting. 

"Now  rest,"  commanded  Glenn,  standing  close 
and  watching  the  white,  set  face. 

"  I'm — about — all — in ! "  The  words  came  quiver- 
ingly  up  to  her. 

"No,  you're  not!"  There  was  an  appeal  in  the 
cheery  response —  "you  only  think  you  are!" 

Just  then  the  stillness  was  broken  by  the  steady 
tramp  and  the  quick  breathing  of  mounting  horses 
on  the  trail!  Glenn  darted  away.  She  ran,  calling 
as  she  went:  "Dad,  Dad!"  In  her  relief  she  evi 
denced  the  strain  she  had  been  enduring. 

When  Arnold  saw  her,  he  raised  himself  in  his  sad 
dle;  his  face  was  grave  and  troubled.  As  he  neared 
her  he  cried  grimly: 

"Girl!  I  should  have  gone  last  night.  While  we 
slept  the  cabin  rolled  over  the  precipice!  I've  been 
searching  for  hours;  the  man " 

"Dad" — (and  now  Glenn  laughed  hysterically) — 
"Why,  Dad,  the  man's  all  right,  he's  up  there  by  the 
road — waiting.  He  was  coming  to  us — I  found  him. 
It's  going  to  be  something  of  a  job  to  get  him  home — 
but  he's  safe." 

Arnold  made  no  rejoinder.  What  he  had  suffered 
during  the  last  few  hours  had  made  his  strong  body 
weak.  It  called  forth  all  his  self-control  to  rally  it 
for  the  immediate  demand. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THERE  were  times,  during  the  week  following 
Grey's  rescue,  that  he  closed  his  eyes  and  luxu 
riated  in  the  fanciful  belief — exaggerated,  of 
course,  by  his  weakness — that  he  had  left  his  old, 
worn-out  self  behind  him  when  he  came  up  the 
trail  from  the  canyon.  By  way  of  diversion  he 
pictured  how  he  might  feel  if  he  were  suddenly  con 
fronted  by  the  discarded  husk.  What  would  be  his 
attitude  toward  it?  Would  he  ignore  it,  temporize 
with  it,  or  denounce  it  roundly,  as  a  strong  and  re 
juvenated  man  should? 

A  dream  he  had  had  in  the  cabin  still  lingered  in 
his  memory.  In  it  his  two  selves  played  a  part. 
The  weaker,  lying  sick  on  the  bed,  was  urged  to 
rise  and  depart  by  the  stronger  self,  standing 
guard.  He  liked  to  feel  that  his  better  nature  had 
rescued  him  and  having  got  him  free  from  the  doomed 
shack,  had  given  him  a  new  start  on  the  upward 
way. 

All  this  was  whimsical  and,  perhaps,  weak  minded, 
but  it  helped  to  while  away  the  time  in  the  east  cham 
ber  when  he  was  not  eating,  sleeping,  or  watching 
Arnold  and  his  amazing  daughter  pouring  out  the 
measure  of  their  unselfish  hospitality. 

This  unquestioned  service,  of  which  he  was  the 
recipient,  often  caused  Grey  to  ponder. 

"Why  I  might  be  a  beggarly  scoundrel  for  all  they 

43 


44  UNBROKEN  LINES 

know  to  the  contrary,"  he  thought.  "Once  I  gained 
strength  I  might  turn  and  rend  them." 

But  right  there  another  line  of  reasoning  entered 
in. 

"Would  I,  though?  Would  any  one,  but  a  de 
mented  devil,  fail  to  respond  to  this  method  of  treat 
ment?  And  if  the  wretch  were  deficient,  another 
course  of  treatment,  different  from  one  generally 
accorded  him,  would  be  resorted  to." 

And  so  the  idle  hours  dragged  along  while  Grey 
made  mental  muscle  and  gained  physical  strength. 

He  heard  his  host  and  the  girl  as  they  worked  be 
low  stairs.  He  was  aware,  during  one  night  in  the 
east  chamber,  of  a  sudden  and  devastating  wind 
striking  the  house.  It  had  seemed  to  come  out  of  a 
deep  silence  like  the  blow  from  the  hammer  of  a 
mighty  Thor.  It  had  startled  and  awed  him  and  he 
trembled  under  his  blankets,  recalling  the  cabin  in 
the  canyon.  When  Arnold  entered  the  bedroom  the 
morning  after  the  storm  he  had  a  breezy  and  whole 
some  appearance — a  big  wind  always  had  an  ex 
hilarating  effect  upon  him. 

"How  did  you  like  our  little  zephyr  last  night?" 
he  asked. 

"It  seems  to  have  cooled  the  air,"  Grey  returned; 
" it  was  rather  noisy  while  it  lasted." 

"Yes;  it's  taken  the  last  vestige  of  summer." 

Arnold  walked  to  the  window  and  looked  out. 
He  had  come  on  a  difficult  mission.  Never  before 
had  he  been  so  confused  regarding  a  stranger  in  his 
home.  His  summer  guests  were  business  proposi 
tions  and  regulated  accordingly.  To  have  a  per 
fectly  unknown  man  upon  his  hands  for  months, 


UNBROKEN  LINES  45 

during  a  season  of  the  year  when,  of  necessity,  he 
must  be  one  of  the  family,  involved  an  entirely  new 
handling  of  the  matter. 

Instinctively  Arnold  liked  Grey;  he  seemed,  in  a 
way,  a  kind  of  salvage  from  what  might  have  been 
an  unforgivable  neglect  of  duty.  Then,  too,  Arnold 
was  gregarious  and  the  thought  of  having  a  good 
comrade — and  he  felt  that  Grey  must  be  that — in 
his  home  while  snow  and  ice  held  them  all  more  or 
less  captive,  had  a  distinct  charm.  On  the  other 
hand  it  was  not  showing  common  sense  to  permit 
this,  knowing  as  little  as  he  did  about  Grey  and  being 
responsible  for  Glenn's  peace  of  mind  and  extra 
duties.  There  must  be  some  kind  of  understanding 
and  yet  to  confront  a  sick  man  with  his  doubts  and 
what  might  seem  to  be  curiosity,  went  against  the 
hospitable  soul  of  Tom  Arnold.  For  himself  alone, 
he  would  have  taken  all  chances  rather  than  appear 
suspicious;  but  there  was  Glenn.  To  be  sure  the 
girl  had  expressed  herself  fully  on  the  subject  that 
very  morning.  She  had  been  explicit  and  concise. 

"I  reckon  he" — she  pointed  above — "is  in  for  it  up 
here,  Dad,  whether  he  wants  to  stay  or  not.  I  think 
it's  great  fun.  But  if,  after  he  gets  well,  we  don't 
like  him,  we  can  teach  him  snow-shoeing  and  point 
him  down  to  Connor's."  With  this  the  girl  slid 
gracefully  and  suggestively  across  the  floor.  But 
Arnold  was  not  so  irresponsible.  It  would  be  some 
time  before  a  snow-shoe  exit  could  be  relied  upon, 
and  after  the  drifts  began  to  form  any  other  method 
was  all  but  impossible. 

,.  So  Arnold,  by  the  window,  grew  uneasy.  Grey, 
upon  the  bed,  with  the  mental  clairvoyance  that  was 


46  UNBROKEN  LINES 

his  principal  stock  in  trade,  began  to  take  in  the  sit 
uation. 

"I  was  thinking/'  Arnold  shifted  from  one  foot 
to  the  other  like  an  awkward  boy,  "that  unless  you 
meant  what  you  said  in  your  letter  about  staying  up 
here  for  the  winter,  we  ought,  in  a  way,  to  consider. 
Once  snow  falls,  it  means  business.  Travel  isn't 
easy;  in  fact  no  one,  as  you  might  say,  moves  about 
much." 

Tones  convey  shades  to  a  keen  mind.  Grey  knew, 
as  surely  as  if  the  words  had  said  it,  that  he  was 
no  unwelcome  guest.  With  doubt  concerning  him 
removed,  he  felt  sure  he  would  be  a  most  welcome 
addition  at  a  time  which,  under  the  best  of  conditions, 
must  be  dreary.  He  smiled  and  began  to  like  and 
admire  his  host  in  an  entirely  new  way.  Then,  too, 
above  anything  else,  he  wanted  to  remain  and  ex 
perience  something  that  appealed  deeply  to  him. 
Rest,  peace,  the  companionship  of  rare  natures.  And 
so  he  said: 

"I  meant  all  that  I  wrote;  I  mean  it  more  than 
ever  now,  since  I  have  tasted  life  up  here.  But  see 
here,  Arnold,  Fm  gaining  by  the  hour  and  I  would 
not  inconvenience  you  for  the  world.  I  do  not  know 
the  etiquette  of  the  heights  but  I  do  know  that  I 
have  no  right  to  claim  anything  from  you  without, 
to  a  certain  extent,  explaining  myself." 

This  manner  of  approach  pleased  Arnold.  He  drew 
a  chair  close  to  the  bed  and  fairly  beamed  on  his  guest. 

"I — hope  you  understand.  You  will,  later,"  he 
said,  genially.  "It's  one  thing  to  drift  about  in  the 
open  and  quite  another  to  be  jammed,  like  logs,  as 
we  are  up  here  in  winter." 


UNBROKEN  LINES  47 

"Quite!"  agreed  Grey,  and  lifted  himself  on  his 
elbow  to  test  his  strength.  "And  a  young  girl  in  the 
bargain,  too,"  he  added. 

"Exactly!"  Arnold  nodded  and  felt  morally  sure 
of  his  man  now,  and  Grey  went  quietly  on. 

"I'm  a  writer  chap — one  who  has  been  fortunate 
enough  to  make  his  bread  and  butter  by  his  trade — • 
after  the  usual  fight  and  learning  to  adjust  myself. 
I've  got  a  bit  more,  too,  salted  down,  from  a  grand 
mother  who  managed  to  keep  her  faith  in  me." 

This  effort  to  prove  himself  caused  Grey  to  flush 
nervously  for  he  saw  that  it  irritated  Arnold. 

"Fm  not  lying  awake,  nights,  fretting  about  dol 
lars  and  cents,"  Tom  broke  in.  "Along  that  line 
it's  my  religion  to  share  with  my  fellow  creature." 

"I'm  sure  of  that,  Arnold,  but  I  wanted  you  to 
understand  that  I  started  up  here  on  a  purely  busi 
ness  venture.  I  see  now  that  if  I  stay  it  will  all  be 
quite  different.  Unless  you  permit  me  to  be  one 
of  the  family,  so  to  speak,  share  your  duties  and  all 
the  rest,  I'd  be  an  infernal  nuisance.  On  the  other 
hand,  if  you  can  accept  me — in  a  way,  adopt  me — 
I  believe,  honestly  I  do,  Arnold,  I  believe  you  would 
n't  be  sorry.  I've  done  a  bit  of  hob-nobbing  in  odd 
corners  of  the  earth,  with  a  good  many  sorts,  in  my 
time,  and  I've  never  been  kicked  out  yet." 

They  smiled  genially  at  each  other  and  Arnold 
hitched  his  chair  nearer.  He  was  going  to  offer  his 
hand  soon  and  he  estimated  the  dividing  space. 

"I'm  not  running  away  from  anything  but  myself, 
Arnold.  I'm  about  the  average  kind  of  fellow,  but — 
if  I  were  sitting  in  your  chair  and  you  were  lying 
here,  I  could  take  your  hand,  old  man!" 


48  UNBROKEN  LINES 

That  was  enough.  Out  went  Arnold's  big  fist  and 
grasped  the  thin  one  extended. 

"You're  welcome,  Mac." 

Now  when  Arnold  dropped  the  surname  and  took 
up  the  Christian  name  it  was  like  knighting  one. 
"Rise  up  a  friend!"  it  meant.  If  ever  the  old  title 
were  to  be  resumed  it  would  mark  a  drear  day  for 
somebody. 

Grey  settled  back  among  his  pillows.  He  was 
weary,  but  happily  content. 

"I'm  from  Boston,"  he  added  as  an  afterthought. 
Then,  thinking  that  it  might  add  to  his  respecta 
bility  and  entrenched  position:  "I'm  twenty-seven 
years  old." 

Somehow  this  struck  Arnold  as  deliciously  amus 
ing  and,  at  the  same  time,  conclusive  and  definite. 
Glenn  at  once  seemed  to  shrivel  into  mere  baby 
hood  and  became  no  factor  at  all  in  the  new  arrange 
ments. 

By  the  middle  of  the  following  week  Grey  grew 
ambitious  and,  taking  advantage  of  an  hour  when 
the  house  was  as  silent  as  a  tomb,  he  struggled  into 
his  clothes  and  made  his  way — pausing  to  take  breath 
and  gripping  hold  of  everything  that  offered  support 
— downstairs.  When  he  reached  the  living  room 
below  he  stood  still  and  estimated  the  chances  of 
getting  across  the  space  that  lay  between  him  and 
a  deep,  cushioned  chair  by  the  hearth.  There  was 
nothing  to  clutch  at  on  the  way  and,  should  dizzi 
ness  overpower  him,  he  might  make  a  spectacle  of 
himself.  It  was  pathetic  but  humorous,  too.  The 
humorous  aspect  braced  Grey.  He  straightened  his 
shoulders  and — strode  forth! 


UNBROKEN  LINES  49 

At  that  instant  a  most  unexpected  sound  nearly 
caused  him  to  fall;  he  did,  indeed,  stagger. 

It  was  the  tinkle  of  a  mandolin  impudently  keeping 
time  to  his  uneven  steps !  He  was  angry.  No  man 
likes  to  appear  ridiculous. 

"I  didn't  know  you  were  around,"  he  said,  sharply. 

"I'm  not  around,  Fm  here.  Go  on,  Mr.  Grey;  the 
way  you  walk  makes  a  new  tune." 

Glenn  was  sitting  hunched  up  on  a  window  seat 
under  the  stairs. 

"Don't  you  think  you're  a  bit  unkind?"  Grey 
stood  still,  closing  his  eyes,  and  struggling  to  regain 
confidence. 

Then  he  felt  the  girl  beside  him. 

"Here's  the  same  shoulder  you  used  before,"  she 
said, in  tones  so  tender  that  all  resentment  died.  "The 
chair  has  been  waiting  by  the  fire  for  days,  Mr.  Grey 
— just  waiting  for  you. " 

Gray,  without  hesitation,  accepted  the  offer  of  the 
firm  little  shoulder,  and  so  he  reached  safety. 

After  a  few  minutes  he  was  surprised  to  find  that 
his  efforts,  instead  of  exhausting  him,  seemed  to  have 
given  him  strength. 

"I've  made  some  progress  since  the  day  your 
father  and  you  half  led,  half  dragged  me  across  this 
room  two  weeks  ago,"  he  said,  with  courage.  "I 
didn't  care  then  whether  I  lived  or  died." 

"And  now?"  Glenn  was  standing  near  the  chim 
ney,  her  arms  were  folded  and  her  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  Grey  with  intense  interest. 

"Oh!  I'm  keen  about  living.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  I've  got  to  thinking  I  never  have  lived  before." 

"What  have  you  been  doing?" 


50  UNBROKEN  LINES 

"Nothing  very  important,  I'm  afraid,  unless  it 
was — making  my  way  up  here." 

Glenn  had  a  curious  way  of  crinkling  her  left  eyelid 
when  she  was  amused  but  not  sufficiently  moved  to 
laughter.  It  was  very  captivating  and  made  her  ap 
pear  absurdly  young. 

While  Grey  was  noting  the  charm  of  the  girl  in  her 
rough  clothing  he  was  aware  of  several  other  things 
at  the  same  time.  He  was  picturing  Glenn  in  differ 
ent  garments;  woman's  frills  and  ruffles.  It  was 
something  of  a  sensation  to  dissociate  her  from  trous 
ers  and  flannel  waist.  Then  the  remarkable  aspect 
of  the  room  fixed  itself  in  his  brain. 

All  around  the  walls,  where  there  were  no  windows, 
doors,  or  chimney,  there  were  shelves  with  books. 
Good  books,  too,  he  knew  that  at  a  glance. 

There  were  bright  Indian  rugs  on  the  floor  and 
artistic  furniture — home-made  but  conceived  and 
wrought  by  a  master. 

"I  cannot  account  for  it  all,  by  Jove!"  he  suddenly 
exclaimed. 

"What?"  Glenn  was  making  her  estimates,  too. 
Here,  before  her,  was  a  man.  Hitherto  he  had  been 
a — well,  a  fellow  creature — one  that  had  been  res 
cued  and  brought  back  to  life.  Seen  now,  clothed 
and  sitting  upright,  he  was  something  to  be  con 
sidered,  weighed — accepted  or  rejected. 

"What  can  you  not  account  for?" 

"Well,  this  room;  your  father;  you — the  whole  out 
fit." 

"Oh !     Once  you  settle  about  Dad  the  rest  is  easy." 

Again  Glenn  crinkled  her  eyelid  and  Grey  had  that 
sudden  uplift  of  spirits.  This  was  somewhat  cor- 


UNBROKEN  LINES  51 

rected,  however,  by  the  girl,  at  that  instant,  raising 
her  foot,  in  a  quick,  boyish  way,  and  kicking  a  log 
back  to  its  duty. 

-  "Dad's  the  only  wonder.  He  began  life  by  not 
belonging  to  any  one  in  particular  but  everyone  gave 
him  a  lift.  He  worked  in  a  mine.  He  taught  him 
self  to  read  and  write  and  then  city  folks  began  to 
notice  him  and  sent  him  books.  When  he  had  money 
he  bought  more  books  and  after  awhile  he  bought  a 
mine  that  everyone  else  thought  was  worthless,  but 
which  wasn't.  Then  he  bought  more  books  and 
built  a  log  cabin;  the  cabin  was  the  beginning  of  this." 
Glenn  looked  about  her  lovingly,  proudly.  "He 
guided  men,  quite  wonderful  men,  every  summer;  you 
learn  a  lot  that  way  if  you  are  the  good-friend  sort." 

"You  bet!"  interjected  Grey.  He  was  being 
carried  along  in  spite  of  himself. 

"And  then — my  father  met  my  mother."  Glenn 
paused  and  was  about  to  hurry  on,  but,  feeling  that 
she  was  disloyal,  she  added:  "My  mother  came  from 
a  long  distance;  she  was  a  beautiful  woman  and — 
and  so  good  and  wise.  She  helped  my  father  a  great 
deal." 

"Of  course!"  Grey  was  watching  the  expressive 
face  and  his  quick  imagination  put  its  touch  right 
there — upon  a  high  note.  He  asked  no  question, 
however,  and  the  story  ran  on. 

"My  mother  died — the  night  I  was  born.  After 
that — a  family  came  to  live  here — to  help  father 
raise  me.  I  suppose  I  was  rather  messy  at  first,  but 
the  Pitkinses  were  messier,  and  when  I  was  six  Dad 
sent  them  off  to  their  cabin  up  the  trail  and  after 
that  he  and  I  made  it  out,  somehow,  together." 


52  UNBROKEN  LINES 

A  suspicious  mistiness  rose  in  Glenn's  eyes. 

"We  must  have  been  funny,  Dad  and  I,"  she 
said,  tenderly.  "He  made  me  little  trousers  by 
cutting  out  a  paper  pattern  of  his  own  and  then  slic 
ing  it  down  to  my  size.  He  taught  me  everything — 
cooking  and  climbing  and  taking  care  of  myself  and — 
and  all  the  rest;  and  then  when  I  was  twelve  years 
old  a  young  professor  came  up  here  with  a  badly 
damaged  constitution  and  Dad  kept  him  for  three 
years.  He  was  quite  well  by  that  time  and  he  had 
filled  me  with  so  much  education  that  I  couldn't 
think!" 

Grey  threw  his  head  back  and  laughed. 

"So  many  trees,"  he  quoted,  "that  you  couldn't 
see  the  wood,  eh  ? " 

Glenn  thought  over  the  remark  and  then  said: 

"That's  awfully  clever.  I  know  woods  like  that. 
Yes,  that  is  the  way  I  felt,  exactly.  You  see,  when 
ever  he  thought  of  anything  he  just  put  it  in  my  brain, 
and — there  it  was !  When  he  went  away  I  felt  sort  of 
choked  and  I  told  Dad  I  guessed  it  would  take  me  the 
rest  of  my  life  to  get  the  litter  cleared  up." 

"I  begin  to  see  it  all  perfectly,"  Grey  broke  in. 
,"You  are  quite  right.  Granting  that  your  father  is 
a  wonder — and  he's  that  certainly — the  rest  is  easy." 

"Am  I  tiring  you?"  asked  Glenn. 

"Good  Lord!  no.  I  am  getting  stronger  by  the 
minute." 

"There's  something  I  would  like  to  ask  you  about; 
something  the  professor  said." 

"What  was  it?" 

"It  was  about  a  procession.  I  have  always  known 
he  didn't  mean  exactly  what  he  said  and  it  made 


UNBROKEN  LINES  53 

Dad  angry.  He  told  Dad  that  I  ought  to  be  sent 
down  with  my  kind  where  I  would  have  to  march 
with  the  procession.  That  was  the  word  he  used: 
'procession/  What  procession  did  he  mean?" 

Grey's  eyes  were  filled  with  merriment. 

"I — somehow  cannot  imagine  you  keeping  step," 
he  murmured,  presently,  more  to  himself  than  to  her. 

"Then  there  is  such  a  thing.  What  kind  marches 
in  it  ?  Just  what  is  meant  ? " 

"A  good  many  kinds;  all  trying  to  keep  step;  be 
ing  cursed  if  they  do  not." 

"Why,  it  must  be  very  unpleasant.  Why  do  they 
do  it?  Where  are  they  all  marching  to?"  Glenn 
was  trying  to  sift  the  truth  from  the  chaff. 

"The  Lord  knows  why  they  do  it — and  what  they 
are  aiming  to  reach.  It's  a  beastly  parade." 

"I  should  think  so!"  Glenn  was  visualizing  it. 
"What  would  happen  if  you  ran  or  jumped — or  just 
stood  still?" 

"Something  too  awful  to  contemplate." 

"You  are — making  fun  of  me,  Mr.  Grey?  You 
mustn't  do  that,  you  know."  The  girl  looked  her 
warning. 

"Hardly  that,  Glenn.  What  your  teacher-chap 
meant  was  that  you  were  so  different  from  the  rank 
and  file  that  life  might  be  a  little  harder  for  you  un 
less  you  learned  to — well,  keep  step." 

"I  see."  Then,  after  a  moment's  pause:  "I'm 
afraid  I  never  could.  Never!  If  there  were  a  big 
reason,  I  might  try,  but  if  there  were  not  some  rea 
son,  bigger  than  I,  why,  I'd  just  come  back  here 
where  one  does  not  have  to — to  keep  step;  where 
there  is  room  to — fling  around  a  bit.  I  say,  Mr. 


54  UNBROKEN  LINES 

Grey,  what  do  you  think  about  coming  outside  and 
seeing  the  sun  set?  It's  going  to  be  great;  it's  been 
getting  ready  for  hours — piling  up  clouds." 

"You  mean  for  me  to — go  out  of  doors?"  Grey 
liad  accepted  the  invalid  role  more  fully  than  he  him 
self  realized. 

"Yes,  I'll  get  a  fur  coat  of  Dad's.  The  air 
will  make  you  over.  Snow  is  coming  and  the 
air  is  always  softer  and  kinder  before  the  snow  chokes 
it." 

Afraid  of  seeming  cowardly,  Grey  got  upon  his  feet 
and  plunged  his  arms  into  the  great  coat  Glenn  of 
fered.  The  whole  scheme  reeked  of  madness,  but  he 
hadn't  moral  courage  to  refuse.  Once  out  of  doors 
he  drew  a  long  breath  and  held  up  his  head. 

"Want — the  shoulder?"  asked  Glenn,  imperson 
ally. 

"Thanks,  but  I  believe  I'll  trust  to  myself  for  a 
moment.  It's  splendid  to  think  that  I  can." 

"Oh,  you're  quite  well  now,"  Glenn  paced  the 
piazza  with  him;  "you  are  only  rinding  it  out." 

"I  must  be  a  dub  to  have  doubted.  Come,  let 
us  try  a  turn  on  the  ground.  This  is  immense ! " 

So  down  the  shallow  step  they  went  and  with  only 
the  sky  above  them,  Grey  had  a  wild  impulse  to 
shout. 

"Why,  look  at  that  peak!"  he  exclaimed,  gazing 
at  the  Monk.  "It  looks  as  if  it  had  got  loose  and 
was  running." 

"Yes,  doesn't  he?"  Glenn  glowed,  happily.  Grey's 
response  to  her  mountains  filled  her  with  delight; 
she  was  growing  to  like  him  more  and  more. 

"How  do  you  think  the  Monk  would  look  in  the 


UNBROKEN  LINES  55 

procession?"  she  asked  and  set  her  eyelid  to  its  be 
witching  trick. 

"Very  much  as  you  would!"  And  Grey  was  not 
laughing  now  as  he  fixed  his  eyes  upon  her.  Then 
Glenn  turned  suddenly  her  full,  frank  gaze  upon  him. 

"I  like  you  so  much!"  she  said,  kindly,  generously. 
"I  was  afraid  I  might  not  when  you  were  up  and 
dressed.  People  are  so  different.  But  you  seem  to 
belong  here;  Dad  said  you  did — but  I  had  to  know. 
I  was  afraid  you  would  turn  out  to  be  quite  awful 
when  we  were  all  shut  away  together.  But  you  will 
not  be." 

They  had  accepted  him,  then! 

"And  now?"  Grey  awaited  the  answer  with  a 
keen  curiosity. 

"I'm  sure — it  is  all  right.  We'll  have  great  times. 
Winter  puts  you  a  long  way  ahead — or  back!  We 
read  and  talk  and  think.  Dad  says  I  always  live  two 
years  every  winter  and  slip  back  one  every  summer." 

"I  understand."  Then,  with  inspiration:  "Glenn, 
what  do  you  say  to  this  ?  If  I  write  up  here — and  I 
mean  to! — may  I  read  what  I  write  to  you  and  your 
father,  evenings?" 

The  girl  drew  her  breath  in  sharply. 

"  If  you  only  will ! "  she  whispered.  "  I've  dreamed 
of  it.  I've  seen  us  all  sitting  by  the  fire;  Dad  and  I 
listening,  and  you  reading;  and-— and  the  stillness  out 
of  doors;  and  then  being  afraid  to  go  to  bed — as  Sam 
Morton  says  he  was  when  you  told  him  things  in  the 
canyon  cabin." 

Grey  was  mightily  amused.  He  was  positively 
strutting.  His  new  strength,  the  joy  in  being  alive, 
set  every  sense  tingling. 


56  UNBROKEN  LINES 

"By  the  way,  what  has  become  of  Morton?  I 
thought  he  might  drop  in,  you  know,  to  see  how  a 
fellow  was  getting  on." 

Glenn's  face  clouded  and  her  eyes  fell.  Grey  fol 
lowed  her  glance  and  saw  that  she  was  looking  at  a 
ring  upon  her  left  hand.  Why  this  should  startle 
him  it  would  have  been  hard  to  say,  but  several  of  his 
emotions  registered  an  entirely  new  set  of  impres 
sions. 

"Perhaps  he  has  been  here?" 

"Yes — he  dropped  in." 

"Didn't  he  want  to  see  me?" 

"Well — not  enough  to  waken  you;  you  were 
asleep." 

"I — see!"  Grey  kept  his  eyes  on  the  ring.  Glenn 
caught  his  glance  and  flushed  deeply. 

"Morton  is  a  great  chap,"  Grey  made  an  absurd 
effort  to  be  vague  and  impersonal — "a  great  chap. 
I  owe  him  a  good  deal.  I  must  get  in  touch  with  him. 
He  said  he  lived  near  here.  Perhaps  in  a  day  or  so, 
I  may  be  able  to  tackle  the  climb  to  his  place." 

"Sam  has  gone  to  Connor's  for  mail  and  supplies," 
Glenn  replied  and  she  turned  the  little  stones  of  the 
ring  away  from  view.  "He'll  be  back  before  long 
but  if  you  want  to  visit  Sam  you  will  have  to  learn  to 
use  snow-shoes." 

"Why,  in  heaven's  name?" 

Glenn  looked  up,  sniffed,  and — as  if  scenting  some 
thing  from  afar — said : 

"The  snow  is  coming — and  soon." 


CHAPTER  V 

GREY  had  never  conceived  of  such  a  sight  as 
greeted  him  several  days  later  when,  upon 
rising,  he  looked  out  of  the  window.  He  felt 
as  if  he,  along  with  the  universe,  had  been  blotted 
out.  Peering  from  his  window  he  gazed  into  a  white 
silence.  It  did  not  seem  to  move;  there  was  no  wind 
stirring;  there  was  nothing.  He  felt  oppressed,  and, 
with  the  ignorance  of  the  stranger,  he  wondered  if 
he,  or  any  of  them,  would  emerge  alive — for  it  was 
snowing  in  the  mountains!  Then,  from  below,  he 
heard  the  blessed  sounds  of  life  and  safety.  Arnold 
was  in  high  spirits  carrying  in  wood,  apparently,  and 
stamping  about  noisily.  Glenn  was  chanting  glee 
fully  an  incantation  to  the  very  thing  that  was  de 
pressing  Grey.  She  called  it  a  "dear,  soft  blanket" 
— a  "white  wing" — a  "kind  breast  to  snuggle 
under/' 

Then,  suddenly,  the  spirit  of  the  storm  took  pos 
session  of  Grey  as  if  by  magic.  He  was  in  for  weeks 
of  this  marvellous,  white  stillness;  weeks  when  the 
world  and  all  that  went  into  the  making  of  the  world 
would  be  shut  away.  There  would  be  hours  by 
glowing  fires — moments  of  intense  excitement  while 
meals  were  planned — for  Glenn  managed  to  invest 
housekeeping  with  a  lively  interest  that  extended  to 
every  member  of  the  family.  Already  Grey  had 
learned  the  difference  between  housekeeping  and 

57 


58  UNBROKEN  LINES 

home-making;  had  shared  the  joy  of  cooperation. 
Often,  in  the  daily  tasks  with  Arnold  or  Glenn,  he 
would  pause  and  chuckle  as  he  pictured  his  old  self 
contemplating  this  new  being  who  prided  himself  on 
his  wood-chopping  ability  and  the  ease  with  which 
he  mastered  details  of  importance  in  the  kitchen. 
Besides  the  home  tasks,  Grey's  hours  at  his  table  in 
the  eastern  chamber  were  beginning  to  be  fruitful  and 
gratifying.  He  discovered  that  his  renewed  body 
rose  to  the  demands  of  his  refreshed  brain. 

Since  that  first  day  with  Glenn  in  the  open,  he 
realized  that  he  was — well!  He  never  slipped  back, 
although  he  put  his  powers  to  great  tests.  He 
worked,  often,  far  into  the  night;  he  slept  the  dream 
less  sleep  of  health;  and,  like  a  man  cured  of  the  drug 
habit,  he  looked  back  at  his  old  slavedom  and  felt  a 
wholesome  disgust  for  the  trivial  things  that  had  kept 
him  from  his  work  and  all  but  defeated  his  best 
qualities  of  mind  and  body. 

He  had,  already,  two  completed  manuscripts — 
short. stones  born  of  recent  inspiration.  He  meant 
to  read  them  aloud  to  Arnold  and  Glenn  and 
then  send  them  to  the  one  friend  with  whom  he 
meant  to  keep  in  touch  during  his  absence — Beverly 
Train. 

It  was  this  friend  who  had  originally  driven  him 
forth.  She  had  demanded  justice  from  himself,  to 
himself.  She  stood  guard  now;  she  would  not  in 
trude  until  he  signalled  her. 

"I  must  write  to  Beverly  Train,"  thought  Grey, 
looking  into  the  depths  of  the  white  stillness.  "I 
will  write  to-day  after  I  have  read  my  things  to 
Arnold  and  Glenn." 


UNBROKEN  LINES  59 

Then  into  the  quiet  peacefulness  rang  a  call  from 
below: 

"Mac;  oh — Mac!  Breakfast,  sir;  and  who  was 
right  about  the  snow?  It  has  hung  back  a  bit  to  be 
sure,  but  it's  here!" 

Grey  smiled.  The  use  of  his  abbreviated  name, 
by  the  girl,  had  been  decided  upon  the  night  before. 

"Two  names  for  one  man  when  we  are  all  shut  in 
together?"  Glenn  had  said:  "Just  pure  waste!" 

How  comical  she  had  looked  as  she  spoke,  striding 
about  like  a  jolly  boy,  meanwhile  daintily  serving  the 
evening  meal. 

"Mac,  my  father  would  say.  Mr.  Grey  would  I 
say — it  is  all  nonsense !  What's  a  name  anyhow  ? " 

"Not  much,"  Grey  had  returned,  "unless  it  is  one 
that  sounds  like  a  bit  of  landscape,  as  yours  does. 
But  by  all  means  let  us  economize  in  titles.  'Mac' 
is  short  and  to  the  point.  A  good  handle  to  utilize 
when  I'm  wanted." 

Glenn  had,  without  a  moment's  hesitation,  adopted 
it. 

All  that  first  day  of  the  storm  Arnold  worked  with 
a  cheerful  desperation  that  was  electrical  in  its  effect. 
It  was  as  if  he  felt  a  sense  of  danger  and  must  comply 
with  all  laws. 

Wood,  water,  and  oil  were  brought  into  closer 
range.  Every  suggestion  of  loose  latch  or  window 
frame  was  looked  after  and  the  animals  were  fed 
early — the  dogs  given  the  freedom  of  the  house. 

"Looks  like  we  were  in  for  it,"  Arnold  announced 
at  supper;  "it  will  get  a  good  foundation  by  morning 
and  then  settle  down  into  a  regular,  proper  spell  of 
cold." 


60  UNBROKEN  LINES 

The  tone  of  authority  impressed  Grey.  He  no 
longer  questioned  his  host  or  Glenn  on  certain  mat 
ters.  There  might  be  delays,  but  their  weather- 
sense  was  far-reaching  and  true. 

And  that  evening  they  drew  close  around  the 
hearth;  the  hanging  lamp  was  lighted  so  that  its  rays 
fell  upon  the  manuscript  that  Grey  was  to  read. 
Arnold  was  smoking  contentedly.  Glenn,  her  eyes 
wide  and  shining,  was  settled  among  the  dogs,  as 
close  to  the  fire  as  safety  permitted.  No  one  spoke 
for  a  time  and  outside  the  house  something  seemed 
pressing.  Arnold  said  that  it  was  the  wind  trying 
to  push  through  the  dense  storm. 

Then,  quietly,  Grey  began  to  read.  He  described 
the  cabin  in  the  canyon.  So  vividly  did  he  do  this 
that  Arnold  raised  his  keen  eyes.  The  words  gripped 
him  from  the  start.  The  artist  in  him  was  alert  and 
responsive.  He  saw  the  bare  loneliness  of  the  grim 
place.  He  became  the  half-sick  man  from  the  prac 
tical  east,  who  meant  to  disprove  the  tales  of  the  old 
cabin  but  who,  presently,  became  convinced  that 
where  men  and  women  have  lived  and  suffered,  loved 
and  died,  something — like  the  fragrance  of  a  flower 
removed — clings  and  materializes. 

Arnold  knew  the  history  of  the  cabin.  It  was 
before  his  time  that  a  man,  greedy  and  beset  by  the 
idea  that  he  had  discovered  a  rich  vein  of  gold,  had 
brought  his  young  wife  to  the  canyon  and,  early  and 
late,  worked  to  discover  what  was  not  there.  Re 
fusing  assistance,  because  he  meant  to  possess  all  in 
case  success  came,  he  laboured  on.  The  wife  had 
died  of  loneliness  and  fear;  the  man,  at  last  filled 
with  disappointment  and  remorse,  fled  the  scene; 


UNBROKEN  LINES  61 

and  soon  after,  the  mountaineers  began  to  repeat 
the  ugly  tales  that  ended  in  branding  the  cabin  and 
making  of  it  a  hated  and  feared  place. 

But  Grey's  story  ran  on.  The  sceptic  who,  single- 
handed,  had  taken  upon  himself  the  task  of  laying 
the  ghost  forever,  stayed  in  the  desolate  spot;  stayed 
until  something  happened!  He  took  a  photograph 
one  day  and,  upon  developing  it,  discovered  that, 
off  to  one  side,  crouching  near  the  hearth,  was  the 
outline  of  a  woman's  figure!  Startled  and  horrified, 
he  took  more  pictures.  Again  and  again  that  un 
mistakable  shade  sat,  as  if  dumb  with  fear,  by  the 
ash-strewn  hearth. 

By  the  time  Grey  had  reached  the  end  of  his  story, 
Arnold  had  tossed  his  pipe  aside  and  Glenn  was  like 
a  stone  statue  of  flattering  absorption. 

And  then  they  talked  it  over — talked  of  haunted 
lives,  of  haunted  houses,  streets,  and  sunny  nooks; 
of  people  and  places  around  whom  memory — happy, 
sad,  or  tragic — held  a  vivid  part. 

"I  expect,"  Arnold  suggested,  "that  that  poor 
soul  kind  of  felt  she  hadn't  done  her  duty  and  came 
back  to  straighten  things  out  with  her  man.  Now  if 
he  had  done  his  full  part  toward  her,  he  would  have 
been — waiting.  That's  the  way  I  look  at  it." 

He  was  thinking  of  the  little  ghost  that  haunted 
his  life — of  his  joy  in  working  and  living  among  the 
scenes  where  she  had  been  made  so  happy.  Glenn's 
life  was  unhaunted,  as  yet,  and  so  she  could  give  her 
full  attention  to  the  story.  With  a  deep  sigh  she 
said: 

"I  reckon  that  when  the  cabin  tumbled  into  the 
canyon  the  ghost  was  set  free.  I  can  just  see  her 


62  UNBROKEN  LINES 

shaking  off  the  dust  and — and  either  following  the 
river  or — the  birds." 

"That's  quite  an  idea,  child!"  said  Grey,  taking 
out  his  blue  pencil,  "quite  a  scheme." 

"Birds  or  river,"  he  jotted  down  in  the  margin. 
Then  he  said  aloud: 

"I  couldn't  bear  to  leave  the  sad  ghost  sitting 
among  the  debris  of  the  cabin,  not  even  a  shelter  for 
herself  while  she  waited,  but  I  didn't  see  any  way  of 
disposing  of  her.  After  all  she  had  nothing  to  wait 
for.  She  was  free  to  follow  her  own  vision,  at  last, 
when  everything  that  had  caged  her  was — a  wreck." 
Then  he  smiled  and  added:  "You  two  are  some  in- 
spirers!" 

And  so  the  first  reading  came  to  a  triumphant  con 
clusion  and  they  parted  for  the  night;  Arnold,  to 
seek  his  haunted  chamber  where  love,  faith,  and  hope 
awaited  him;  Glenn,  to  the  pretty  nest  under  the 
broad  eaves,  where  the  toys  of  her  strange  childhood 
still  held  dignified  court  on  a  shelf  near  her  bed;  and 
Grey,  to  his  eastern  room  where,  by  the  fireside,  he 
sat  to  think  it  all  out  and  make  a  new  ending  of  the 
story — before  he  sent  it  to  Beverly  Train.  This  he 
tried  earnestly  to  do,  but  he  could  not  focus  his  mind 
on  it.  His  ghost  arose  and  began  its  restless  pacing. 
It  was  a  small  wan,  inconsequential  shade  but,  per 
haps  for  that  very  reason,  it  had  managed  to  cast 
over  Grey's  life  a  dun  shadow — had  contrived  to 
clutch  in  its  groping  fingers  the  very  fibres  of  his  be 
ing — and,  because  it  had  no  legitimate  hold,  hung 
more  tenaciously.  Why  the  sudden  confronting  of 
his  spectre  should  now  so  greatly  disturb  him  he 
could  not  have  told.  He  had  grown  used  to  its 


UNBROKEN  LINES  63 

existence — had,  on  Beverly  Train's  insistence,  given 
himself  a  year  in  which  to  decide  what  he  owed  the 
Past  and  the  Future.  .  There  was  the  year  still  to  the 
good:  he  had  only  just  entered  the  space  of  time. 
Why  this  strange  consciousness  of — a  Presence? 
Why  this  quickening  of  his  pulses — this  unaccount 
able  desire  to  lay  now,  without  further  delay,  the 
haunting  spectre? 

"It  is  because —  Grey  almost  spoke  the  words  in 
his  effort  to  reassure  himself — "this  simple,  isolated 
existence  takes  me  back  to  old  times  before  things 
began  to  happen;  things  that  I — bungled." 

Then  he  glanced  furtively  across  his  hearth  as  if 
expecting  to  find  something  sitting  there!  He  made 
an  effort  mentally,  to  get  back  to  that  time  when, 
as  a  boy,  he  had  lived  his  lonely  life  among  strangers, 
on  a  desolate  farm.  He  recalled  his  years  of  dreams 
and  work  and  study.  He  wondered  why  it  had  not 
killed  his  liking  for  what  he  was  now  keenly  enjoying. 

"I  suppose  first  impressions  persist"  he  reasoned: 
"one  forgets  the  small  miseries;  the  general  good 
holds.  I'm  not  made  for  cities:  I'm  at  my  best  in — 
the  open!" 

Again  he  glanced  across  the  ash-strewn  hearth  and, 
by  a  trick  of  fancy,  Glenn  Arnold  seemed  to  be  sitting 
where,  but  a  moment  ago,  his  ghost  had  sat — the 
haunting  spectre  was  among  the  ashes!  At  this 
Grey  rose  and  began  pacing  the  room.  He  gave  up 
all  thought  of  re-writing  his  story's  conclusion.  He 
had  more  important  business  on  hand.  "Right  or 
wrong,"  he  muttered,  "I'm  going  to  hold  to  the  year. 
I  may  be  a  fool — but  a  fool,  then,  I'll  be!" 

Having  accepted  this  humiliating,  but  comforting 


64  UNBROKEN  LINES 

prospect,  Grey,  to  his  relief,  was  able,  after  a  few 
more  restless  strides,  to  settle  in  his  chair  by  the 
table.  He  looked  at  his  manuscript,  temptingly 
lying  at  hand,  and  felt  as  one  must  feel  who,  while 
suffering  from  hunger,  cannot  eat.  He  longed  for 
the  oblivion  that  his  work  always  brought  to  him, 
but  he  knew  that  such  joy  was  not  for  him  now. 
Ghost-raising  exacted  a  penalty.  He  grimly  began 
to — pay!  For  a  full  hour  he  doled  out  the  toll.  He 
tried  to  be  just — just  to  himself  and  to  others  as 
Beverly  Train  had  insisted  upon. 

What  a  friend  Beverly  was!  What  a  power  she 
held  in  the  lives  of  the  few  who  came  close  to  her! 
And  now  Grey  could  afford  to  relax.  This  he  did  and 
a  delightful  drowsiness  overcame  him.  One  mo 
ment  he  thought  he  must  get  to  bed;  the  next,  he 
was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  cold  and 
trembling!  The  fire  had  all  but  died — he  walked 
giddily  to  the  hearth  and  nervously  fed  the  small 
embers  that  still  held  hope.  In  action,  Grey  became 
calmer,  but  still  experienced  the  uncanny  sensation 
of  approaching  danger.  He  saw  the  fire  leap  to  life 
and  then  went  to  the  window  and  threw  up  the  sash. 

The  storm  had  ceased  and  the  still  whiteness  was 
radiant  with  the  light  from  a  hidden  but  full  moon. 
As  Grey  gazed  into  the  empty  space  surrounding  the 
Lodge,  something  black  and  quick-moving  came  into 
view.  At  first  he  thought  that  it  was  some  wild 
creature  seeking  food,  but  as  he  looked  longer  he  saw 
that  it  was  a  woman,  gliding — not  walking — to 
ward  the  house. 

So  nerve-racked  was  he  that  superstitious  terror 
gave  way  to  positive  alarm.  His  ghost  took  on 


UNBROKEN  LINES  65 

human  and  vital  shape — it  was  coming  out  of  its 
shallow  grave — it  was  demanding  what  it  had  no 
right  to  demand! 

There  was  a  sound  on  the  porch  below — a  stealthy 
opening  of  the  never-locked  door;  then,  soft  footfalls 
on  the  stairs.  Grey  turned  his  face  to  his  door  ex 
pecting — he  knew  not  what.  Presently  he  became 
aware  of  the  amazing  truth  that,  whatever  was 
abroad  in  the  way  of  danger,  it  was  not  directed  to 
ward  him.  The  steps  went  down  the  hall;  they 
paused  at  Glenn's  door! 


CHAPTER  VI 

EE  many  healthy,  normal  creatures,  Glenn 
Arnold  slept  lightly.  Her  conscious  thought 
lay  always  close  to  that  subconscious  self  that 
touched  it  delicately  and  truly  when  need  arose. 

The  whispered  call  of  "Glenn,  Glenn"  brought  the 
girl  instantly  to  a  sitting  posture.  She  was  not 
alarmed;  not  even  startled.  She  was  wanted,  and 
she  merely  awaited  instructions. 

The  room  was  flooded  with  the  unwavering,  white 
light  and  the  door  from  the  hall  was  cautiously  being 
opened.  Then  a  little  form  crept  to  the  bedside. 

"Why,  it's  Polly  Pitkins!"  whispered  Glenn,  who 
showed  no  surprise.  Had  she  not  been  planning  for 
Polly?  One  look  at  the  girl's  face,  however,  warned 
Glenn  that  no  mere  longing  for  human  society  had 
brought  Polly  to  the  Lodge  in  the  dead  of  night. 

"Wait,"  she  said  and  arose  and  put  on  warm  cloth 
ing.  "Now,  then,  Polly!  Let's  go  down  and  sit 
by  the  fire  while  you  tell  me." 

Polly  was  trembling,  piteously.  She  had  been 
steady  enough  while  shoeing  down  the  dangerous 
hillsides;  she  had  kept  her  head  calm  and  her  nerves 
under  control;  but  now  she  was  breaking,  and  in  her 
effort  to  regain  the  mastery  of  herself,  she  stifled  a 
hard  sob  that  almost  choked  her. 

The  two  girls  noiselessly  went  down  the  dark  pas 
sage  and  stairs;  they  did  not  speak  until  they  reached 

66 


UNBROKEN  LINES  .67 

the  fireside.  There  Glenn  knelt  and,  with  firm  hands, 
laid  a  log  across  the  irons.  At  last  she  said,  softly: 

"Take  off  your  wet  things,  Polly.  Everything  is 
all  right  now." 

Polly  glanced  toward  the  far  door  behind  which 
Arnold  slept.  Glenn  shook  her  head. 

"When  Dad  sleeps,"  she  whispered,  "he  sleeps. 
But  speak  low,  Polly,  for  there  is  some  one  upstairs 
who — might  hear." 

"Who  is  it? — Sam?"  Polly's  face  went  ashy 
white.  She  was  thin  and  ungainly  but  there  was  a 
spiritual  expression  in  her  eyes  that  illumed  her  fea 
tures  and  gave  her,  at  times,  a  positive  beauty. 

The  question  brought  Glenn  to  a  sudden  mental 
standstill;  her  mind  stood  fast  and  waited.  Then, 
stealthily,  she  approached  the  girl  crouching  at  her 
side  on  the  hearth.  She  trembled  a  bit,  but  she  was 
not  wholly  unprepared.  Something  had  made  her 
ready  for  this  hour.  .  . 

"Why  did  you  ask  that? "she  said,  slowly.  Then, 
for  the  first  time  noticing  the  stains  on  the  pale 
cheeks,  she  added:  "You've  been  crying!" 

"Yes.  I've  cried  and  cried  until  I  thought  I  could 
cry  no  more — but  I  did." 

"What's  the  matter,  Polly?" 

"I — I'm  going  down  to  Connor's.  I  didn't  mean 
to  stop — not  at  first — but  I  was  dead  tired  and  then 
I  got  to  thinking  that  it  wasn't  fair  for  Sam  to  have 
it  all  his  own  way;  folks  ought  to  know!"  A  fierce 
hardness  grew  in  the  stifled  voice,  a  flash  in  the  dim 
eyes.  "God!  Sam's  got  to  take  some  of  the  misery." 

Suddenly  Sam  and  Polly  stood  revealed  to  Glenn 
as  desperate  and  connected  facts  that  must  be  ac- 


68  UNBROKEN  LINES 

cepted  and  dealt  with  wisely,  lest  they  might  threaten 
the  safety  of  others.  Glenn  drew  her  breath  in 
sharply.  Her  mother  seemed  to  draw  near;  she  had 
something  to  say — something  to  do  for  her  daughter 
— something  that  no  one  else  could  do  so  well.  She 
understood  and  Glenn,  as  her  child  must  act  for  her! 
This  was  subconscious  reasoning,  but  in  the  stillness 
Glenn  was  thinking  fast  and  hard,  and  her  mind  clung 
to  three  words:  "Polly";  "Sam";  "Connor's"! 
Then  the  words  merged  together: 

"Polly"  and  "Sam"— with  "Connor's"  in  the 
background.  Then  the  words  shifted  and  "Sam" 
was  in  the  background  and  "Polly"  and  "Connor's" 
mingled.  When  Glenn  got  as  far  as  that,  her  horizon 
widened.  Because  she  was  her  mother's  daughter, 
she  grasped  the  hurting  truth ! 

"You  are  not  going  to  Connor's!"  was  all  she  could 
think  to  say;  but  she  was  clinging  desperately  to 
something  that  she  believed  was  still  left  in  her  sud 
denly  shattered  ideal  of  Sam  Morton.  Somehow 
she  must  lay  hold  of  that  and  draw  him  back,  back 
between  Polly  and  Connor's. 

"Yes  .1  am/'  Polly  whimpered;  "there  ain't 
nothing  else  for  me  to  do.  You  can  always  get  work 
at  Connor's.  I'll  work  till. they  find  out;  and  then" 
— she  looked  blankly  at  Glenn — "then — I  don't 
care  what  happens ! " 

There  was  no  use  in  shirking.  Glenn  again  drew 
in  her  breath.  She  did  not  want  to  delve  into  the 
secrets  of  life — she  had  believed  she  could  escape  with 
just  knowing  them  by  rote;  but  she  had  been  wrong. 

"Find  out,  what  Polly?"  she  demanded,  then 
waited. 


UNBROKEN  LINES  69 

Polly  was  too  full  of  suffering  to  heed  the  question, 
but  she  raised  her  eyes,  mutely  to  Glenn  while  that 
subtle  soul-look  filled  them.  Some  day  something 
might  kill  that  look  but  as  yet  it  was — pure. 

Glenn  understood!  She  dared  not  mention  Sam 
Morton's  name;  she  was  trying  not  to  think  of  it. 
This  was  Polly's  secret — Polly's  and  hers.  But  sud 
denly  the  ring  she  wore  seemed  to  burn  her  finger; 
she  pulled  it  off  and  hid  it  in  her  pocket. 

"I  have  to  steal  my  fun,"  sobbed  Polly  at  last. 
"Such  as  you,  can  wait  till  it  comes  to  you.  What 
have  I  got  up  at  my  home?  Dirt  and  noise  and — 
nothin'  else.  I — I  went  to  Sam's  cabin  to  play. 
That's  all  I  did  at  first — just  play.  I  told  them  at 
home  that  I  came  here,  but  I  went  to  Sam's,  when  he 
was  away,  and  made  believe!  I  fixed  things  up  and 
kept  things  clean  and  nice  and  thought  how  like  a 
real  home-place  it  was.  Sam  never  found  me  out 
for  a  long  time.  Then  he  came  back,  sudden;  and 
when  he  knew — he  looked  queer.  He  said  he  kind 
of  thought — youd  been  doing  it." 

Glenn  shivered  and  laid  another  log  noiselessly  on 
the  others.  She  did  not  speak. 

"I  got  to  hoping  he'd  care,  when  he  saw  how  I 
thought  about  fixing  things  and  having  a  home-place 
and  all  that;  and — and  by-and-bye — well,  he 
didn't  say  anything  much.  I  reckon  I  made  believe, 
until  I  got  myself  believing  it  was  all  right.  And 
now — "  Polly's  face  was  ghastly;  her  throat  con 
tracted  and  her  voice  trailed — "and  now  he  says  I 
flung  myself  at  him;  that  he  never  meant  anything 
like  what — what  /  meant.  And  he  says  I  am  trying 
to  scare  him  into — into  marrying  me,  but  that — 


70  UNBROKEN  LINES 

(Polly  waited  until  she  recalled  the  exact  words) 
"but  that  I  couldn't!     That  is — what  he  said." 

Glenn  still  kept  silent.  She  dared  not  speak  nor 
move. 

"But  I — I  didn't  Glenn;  I  didn't  try  to  scare  him. 
I  was  only  frightened  myself.  When  I  stopped 
making  believe — it  all  came  clear!  When  they  find 
out  at  home  that  I  lied  and  that  I've  been  staying, 

off  and  on,  at  Sam's You  know  Father,  Glenn! 

There's  nothing  else  for  me  to  do  but  get  away  be 
fore  they  find  out." 

"They  mustn't  find  out!"  Glenn  leaned  over 
Polly  and  touched  her.  Something  in  her  tried  to 
hold  her  back,  but  she  disdained  it;  she  drew  Polly 
close — defiantly,  gently.  "Nobody  must  find  it 
out — ever ! 

"Oh!     Polly,  I  meant  to  get  you  here;  I  wish  I  had 
got  you  in  time." 

At  this  Polly  laughed  a  dry,  hard  laugh.  "I'm 
doggone  tired,"  she  murmured,  "if  you'll  let  "me  lie 
here  for  awhile,  Glenn,  I'll  start  on  again  before  day 
light." 

Glenn  drew  a  rug  toward  her. 

"Put  your  head  on  my  lap,  Polly,"  she  com 
manded.  "So,  now!  See,  I'll  cover  you  up  and  you 
must  try  to  sleep.  I'd  take  you  upstairs,  but  I'm 
afraid  of  waking  the  man  who  is  here.  He's  been 
sick;  and  besides — I've  got  to  think." 

Polly  nestled  down  and  drew  the  rug  over  her  thin 
body.  "Oh!"  she  faltered— "oh,  it  feels  good." 

Glenn  kept  her  eyes  on  the  relaxed  face — saw  how 
childish  and  weak  it  was.  The  lowered  lids  hid  the 
beauty  of  the  redeeming  eyes;  all  else  was  common- 


UNBROKEN  LINES  71 

place.     TJie  lips  were  prettily  curved;  the  chin  lacked 
character;  the  hair  was  light,  with  the  dark  and  sunny 
shades  that  the  sun  had  tanned  and  faded. 
."Poor  Polly!"  murmured  Glenn. 

Then  the  eyes  lifted  and  transformed  the  face  once 
more. 

v"I — I  don't  know  how  it  was,  Glenn,  but  it  never 
seemed — bad.  It  don't  seem  so  now,  but  I  suppose 
it  will,  by-and-bye.  Maybe  it  would  seem  bad  now 
— if  I  was  good ! " 

The  tears  came  slowly;  they  overflowed  and  ran 
down  the  soiled  cheeks. 

"Listen  Polly" — and  Glenn  found  herself  speaking 
with  an  assurance  that  did  not  falter — "you're  to 
stay  right  here  and  act  as  if — as  if  nothing  had  hap 
pened.  You  can  say  you  got  lonely — that's  true 
enough — and  that  you  came  to  me  for  the  winter. 
And  Polly — when  Sam  thinks  it  over"  (here  Glenn 
was  gripping  at  an  elusive  ray  of  light  that  fixed  it 
self  on  Sam)  "when  Sam  thinks  it  over — things  are 
going  to  to  be  different." 

"How,  Glenn?" 

"I  don't  know.     But  they  are." 

Exhaustion  was  overcoming  all  else  in  Polly;  her 
lids  dropped,  the  last  tear  rolled  down  her  face,  and 
then  she  slept. 

Glenn  braced  herself  against  the  chimney  side  and 
did  not  stir.  More  than  anything  else  she  wanted 
Polly  to  sleep.  Presently,  before  the  others  awak 
ened,  she  meant  to  get  the  girl  upstairs,  but  for  an 
hour  or  so — she  felt  she  must  be  free — to  think;  to 
battle  her  own  way  into  light. 

She  was  surprised  at  herself.     She  wondered  at 


72  UNBROKEN  LINES 

herself,  now  that  Polly  was,  for  the  moment  obliter 
ated.  She  wondered  at  her  lack  of  feeling.  Why 
was  she  not  shocked,  angry,  repelled  ?  Instead,  she 
was  only  concerned  about  how  it  might  all  end  with 
out  any  one — suffering.  Why  should  any  one  suf 
fer?  When  Glenn  thought  of  Sam,  she  breathed  a 
bit  harder.  When  she  had  seen  Sam  last  he  had 
aroused  something  in  her  by  refusing  to  see  Grey; 
it  had  made  her  laugh  and  then  feel  sorry.  She  had 
promised  him  to  wear  his  ring  until  he  came  back 
and  then — if  she  had  not  changed  her  mind — she 
would  kiss  him!  She  had  been  making  believe — she! 

Sitting  by  the  fire  in  the  still,  dark  room,  Glenn 
flushed  and  trembled.  It  was  she,  herself,  for  whom 
she  felt  shame.  She  had  not  meant  to  kiss  Sam — 
ever!  She  had  worn  the  ring  to  make  things  go 
gaily;  she  was  pleasing  herself  for  the  fun  of  seeing 
Sam  look  at  her  as  he  had  then  looked  1  Poor  little 
Polly  had  played  fair — was  willing  to  pay  the  price 
of  that  look  in  Sam's  eyes. 

At  that  point  Glenn  lost  consciousness!  She  did 
not  seem  to  sleep.  She  was  aware  of  the  weight  of 
the  girl  on  her  lap;  she  felt  the  warmth  of  the  fire; 
the  rough,  hardness  of  the  chimney  against  her  back. 
When  her  stiffened  body  would  not  longer  be  ignored 
she  looked  up.  The  morning  light  was  filling  the 
room;  the  night  and  its  dreams  were  gone;  and 
Arnold  and  Grey,  in  silent  amazement,  stood  gazing 
down  upon  the  two  by  the  fire! 

For  a  moment  Glenn  connected  the  whole  scene 
with  one  of  Grey's  stories.  Her  mind  was  too  ex 
hausted  to  accept  bare  fact.  Then  she  looked  at 
Polly — and  remembered! 


UNBROKEN  LINES  73 

How  could  she  have  been  so  careless  as  to  fall 
asleep?  How  could  she  have  slept  when  there  was 
so  much  to  do?  Her  only  thought  at  that  instant 
was  to  account  for  Polly  without  arousing  suspicion 
of  any  kind.  All  that  had  driven  her  and  the  sleep 
ing  girl  to  this  hour,  and  all  that  lay  before,  were 
in  peril  if  she  bungled.  In  seeking  to  make  all  safe, 
she  spoke  automatically  as  one  does  who  repeats 
exactly  what  he  does  not  comprehend. 

"  Dad ;  Polly's  going  to  marry  Sam  Morton.  What 
do  you  think  of  that?  She  came  down  to  tell  me — 
she  had  to!  I'm  going  to  keep  her  until  Sam  comes 
back.  Isn't  this  just  like  Polly  Pitkins,  Dad  ?  She's 
got  ahead  of  me.  I  was  going  for  her — to-day ! " 

Arnold  did  not  reply;  he  simply  stared.  But  Grey 
came  to  Glenn's  relief.  On  the  instant  he  sensed 
trouble! — trouble  that  must  be  strangled,  if  possible; 
held  off,  at  any  rate.  He  entered  the  lists  with  a  keen 
relish.  He  did  not  know  what  he  was  fighting  but  he 
was  ready  to  fight  to  the  finish  and  help  Glenn  win, 
if  winning  was  possible.  He  laughed ! 

The  possibilities  of  a  laugh  are  limitless.  This  one 
brought  Arnold  to  himself.  It  cleared  the  air;  sent 
doubt  and  suspicion  scuttling.  After  all  this  was 
pretty  much  what  Glenn  had  planned  and  he  had 
hoped. 

"Well,  by  the  Lord  Harry!"  he  gasped.  "One 
of  the  Pitkinses,  eh?  Well  sir,  this  has  caught  me 
napping — but  it  isn't  such  a  bad  deal,  at  that!" 

Arnold  was  conscious  of  a  feeling  of  relief.  He  had 
not  formulated  any  fear  regarding  his  own  girl  and 
Sam,  but  he  certainly  drew  a  long  breath,  now.  And 
just  then  Polly  opened  her  eyes  and  sprang  up. 


74  UNBROKEN  LINES 

"I — I  must  go!"  she  panted. 

"Go?  Go  nowhere!"  And  Arnold  laid  his  big, 
kind  hand  on  the  girl's  thin  shoulder.  "Why  child, 
I  haven't  half  paid  you  and  yours  for  what  you  did 
for  me  and  mine  when  things  looked  mighty  dark 
and  difficult.  See  here,  Polly,  you  stay  right  where 
you  are  and  when  that  Sam  of  yours  comes  back, 
we'll  fetch  your  folks  down  and  have  a  wedding,  so 
bless  me!  We'll  show  what  we  can  do,  eh?  This 
is  Mr.  Grey,  Polly — Mr.  Grey  from  Boston;  maybe 
he  thinks  we  can't  have  a  wedding  up  here;  we'll 
show  him!" 

Polly  rubbed  her  eyes  and  stared.  Then  she 
curtsied  to  Grey;  the  act  was  spasmodic,  she  had  to 
do  something.  Presently  her  chin  quivered — that 
poor,  little  weak  chin!  She  looked  at  Glenn  and  the 
tears  began  to  gather. 

"Maybe  you  two  had  better  go  upstairs  and  finish 
the  night  out"  suggested  Arnold.  But  Grey  entered 
the  arena  again: 

"Nothing  of  the  sort;  what  these  girls  need  is  to 
work  off  the  excitement.  Let's  have  a  spanking 
breakfast  to  celebrate.  How  about  it?" 

Glenn  raised  her  eyes  to  Grey — the  look  in  them, 
for  a  moment,  staggered  him.  It  was  the  look  of 
one  who  reached  up  to  him  for  what  he  had  to  give. 

And  then  began  the  daily  life,  with  Polly  Pitkins 
tossed  in  as  an  unknown  quantity.  She  added  zest 
and  flavour,  but  she  innocently  enough,  took  too 
much  attention. 

Arnold  felt  it  incumbent  upon  him  to  jolly  the  poor 
child — to  picture  her  future  in  glowing  terms.  From 
all  this  Polly  shrank  shyly,  affrightedly.  Then 


UNBROKEN  LINES  75 

Glenn  took  to  bullying  her  secretly.  If  she  betrayed 
them,  of  course,  everything  would  be  lost,  she  warned 
the  girl. 

"You  must  keep  on  making  believe,  Polly.  Some 
times  you  can  get  a  grip  by  doing  that.  You  see  if 
you  expect  the  best,  and  get  ready  for  it,  why  you 
won't  look  or  seem  like  the  kind  that  can  be  downed. 
It  is  looking  crushed  that  gives  the  whole  thing  away. 
"You  and  I,  Polly,  have  got  to  make  the  good  in 
Sam  seem  so  real  that  it  will  be  ashamed  to  slink  off! 
And  when  he  sees  you  cheerful  and  expecting  him 
to  be  the  best  kind  of  a  Sam,  why  he'll  be  it — just 
because  he  won't  dare  not  be!" 

"Glenn,  when  I  see  him  I'll  die,"  Polly  shivered 
as  she  stood  apart  with  Glenn. 

"What  did  you  do  the  last  time  you  saw  Sam, 
Polly.  When  he— he  told  you  ? " 

Polly  tried  to  remember.  She  had  struggled 
through  so  much  since  then. 

"I — I  cried,"  she  began,  slowly;  "and  then — yes, 
I  remember  now — I  said:  'Sam,  it  ain't  you  speaking 
—it  ain't'." 

"And  then?"  Glenn's  face  brightened.  "What 
then,  Polly?" 

"Nothing.     I  just  ran  from  the  thing  he  looked." 

"Oh!  splendid,  Polly!  You  ran  from  what  Sam 
looked  that  moment — but  you're  holding  to  some 
thing  better.  Now  answer  me  Polly,  sure  and  cer 
tain.  You  want  to  marry  Sam,  don't  you?  It  isn't 

just  because "  Glenn  was  no  longer  skirting 

away  from  life's  crude  facts.  The  girls  looked  full 
at  one  another. 

"No — it   aint!"     Polly  spoke   fiercely;   "making 


76  UNBROKEN  LINES 

believe  was  the  happiest  thing  I  ever  did;  I  could  go 
on  making  believe — always!" 

Glenn  turned  her  eyes  away;  she  felt  absurdly 
young  and  ignorant.  It  was  Polly  who  knew  the 
big  things  of  life.  Little  starved  and  weak  Polly 
Pitkins. 

But  Grey,  realizing  the  tension,  endeavoured  to 
bring  things  back  to  the  old  regime.  He  grew  quite 
boyish  in  his  efforts  to  amuse;  he  instructed  the 
others  in  games,  more  or  less  riotous.  He  insisted 
upon  practising  snow-shoeing — he  had  done  some 
of  that  in  Canada  once  and  it  came  back  to  him  as 
the  knowledge  of  swimming  comes  back  to  a  swim 
mer.  He  studiously  divided  his  attention  between 
Polly  and  Glenn,  he  felt  very  virtuous  and  wise  until 
one  evening  Glenn  aroused  him  by  a  whispered: 

"Oh!  thank  you,  Mac." 

"What  for?  "he  blurted. 

"For  everything." 

Something  new  and  vital  was  entering  into  the  re 
lations — it  startled  Grey  and  gave  to  Glenn  a  strange 
dignity. 

The  evening  reading  was  perhaps  the  most  success 
ful  pastime,  for  Polly  was  like  a  greedy  child,  then. 
The  mere  sound  of  Grey's  voice  caused  complete 
relaxation.  She  looked  and  listened,  rapt  in  self- 
forgetfulness  and  peace. 

Sometimes  Grey  wondered  if  she  really  took  in 
anything  that  she  heard,  but  she  soon  set  his  doubts 
at  rest.  There  were  certain  things  she  referred  to 
over  and  over  again.  One  of  Grey's  own  stones 
particularly  moved  her. 

"You  don't  make  them  all  wait  till  they  are  dead 


UNBROKEN  LINES  77 

and  done  for  before  you  make  them  happy,  do  you, 
Mr.  Mac?  You  make  them  all  have  a  chance  over 
and  over,  don't  you!  And  then  when  they've 
learned,  deep  and  proper,  they  are — well,  just  folks 
again.  It's  real  fine  to  make  the  world  that  kind  of  a 
world." 

And  through  it  all — though  no  one  voiced  it — -all 
knew  that  they  were  waiting  for  Sam  Morton. 

Who  would  meet  him  first? — when,  and  where, 
and  how? 

Arnold  was  indifferent;  Polly  shrank  from  the  en 
counter;  Glenn  was  determined  to  waylay  Sam;  and 
Grey  was  equally  determined  that  he  should.  In 
consequence  it  was  quite  natural  that  he  and  she 
should  meet  on  the  trail  one  day  and  guiltily  con 
front  each  other.  The  encounter  put  Grey  on  his 
mettle;  he  saw  the  fun  of  it. 

"What  are  you  here  for,  Mac?"  Glenn  spoke 
severely. 

"The  same  thing  that  you  are  here  for,  child." 

It  rather  squared  Grey  with  himself  these  days,  to 
regard  Glenn  as  a  child — a  mere,  sexless  creature  in 
trousers !  The  reiteration  of  the  word  was  impressing 
the  girl.  There  were  times  when  she  was  conscious 
of  her  garments — this  angered  her. 

"Don't  be  funny,  Mac." 

"Am  I  funny?"" 

"Sometimes.     But  where  are  you  going?" 

"Home,  now — since  you  re  on  the  job."  Then  he 
turned  quickly  and  looked  her  calmly  in  the  eyes. 

"Child;  you  want  Sam  Morton  to  marry  Polly, 
don't  you  ? " 

The  suddenness  of  the  attack  took  Glenn  by  storm. 


78  UNBROKEN  LINES 

There  were  times  when  she  felt  rather  weak  as  she 
neared  the  vital  moment.  She  needed  backing. 

"Yes,  I  do!     Of  course  I  do." 

"That's  all  right,  child.  I  only  wanted  to  make 
sure.  I'm  rather  inclined  to  think  he  will  marry  her. 

Why  this  should  comfort  Glenn  beyond  expres 
sion  she  never  could  know,  but  she  gave  Grey  a 
glance  and  a  smile  that  sent  him  back  to  the  Lodge 
with  a  sense  of  new  interest  in  life. 

There  was  no  doubt  in  his  mind  now,  but  that 
Glenn,  even  more  than  Polly's  affair,  interested  him 
deeply.  He  admired  the  determination  and  skill 
with  which  she  held  to  some  unknown  but  real  situa 
tion.  She  had  enlisted  him:  blinded  her  father  and, 
unaided,  was  seeking  to  bring  about  a  result  that  to 
her,  appealed  tremendously. 

Very  well!  Grey  decided  that  he  was  willing  to 
work  in  the  dark  to  procure  what  Glenn  Arnold  had 
set  her  heart  upon.  She  had,  without  conscious 
change,  become  potent  to  him. 


CHAPTER  VII 

GLENN  met  Morton  a  mile  down  the  trail. 
It  was  a  clear,  still  day.  The  snow  was 
covered  by  a  lace-like  design  where  light- 
footed  animals  had  traced  their  patterans.  The 
trees  and  mountains  stood  out,  sharp  and  distinct, 
and  the  sound  of  Sam's  up-climbing  horse  rang  musi 
cally.  Glenn  stood  by  the  side  of  the  road,  like  a 
highwayman,  new  at  her  dangerous  game.  Now  that 
the  hour  had  come,  she  found  herself  unprepared. 
One  thing  alone  she  held  to:  Sam  must,  if  possible, 
stand  and  deliver  that  which  was  best  in  him — that 
which  she  felt  was  there!  He  might  offer  less — 
doubtless  he  would — but  she  must  insist.  She  must 
not  be  frightened;  she  must  not  be  driven  off. 

At  such  a  moment  when  the  big  things  of  life  come 
to  very  simple  people,  the  primitive  use  of  words  is 
resorted  to;  a  few  go  a  long  way. 

Sam,  singing,  came  lazily  along.  His  head  was 
thrown  back;  he  looked  very  handsome — very  care 
free.  This  hardened  Glenn  and  spurred  her  forward. 

Sam  saw  her;  he  laughed  aloud  for  sheer  joy.  She 
had  come  to  meet  him!  He  dismounted,  and  as  he 
drew  near  he  said  the  one  thing  that  was  needed  to 
give  Glenn  the  strength  required  for  her  task. 

"You— brought  it,  eh,  Glenn?" 

"Brought  what?" 

"The— kiss!" 

79 


8o  UNBROKEN  LINES 

Glenn  held  him  by  a  long  look.  "Polly  is  at  the 
Lodge,"  she  said. 

During  the  moment's  pause,  following  this,  a 
great  expanse  of  country  was  travelled  over  by  the 
man  holding  the  horse,  and  the  girl  by  the  trail. 

"Damn  her!"  muttered  Sam.  Then,  desperately: 
"I  suppose — she  told  you — all?" 

"Yes,  she  did."  And  Sam  knew  that  Polly  had. 
His  eyes  fell  for  an  instant. 

"You — you  don't  know  men,  Glenn.  It  was — it 
wasn't  all  my  fault!" 

"I  suppose — not.  You  see,  Polly  was  making 
believe  with  all  her  might — girls  are  made  that  way; 
you  weren't.  That  was  the  difference.  Polly  was — 
Sam,  Polly  was  going  down  to  Connor's;  she  said 
there  was  nowhere  else  to  go!" 

Then  Sam  made  another  mistake;  he  offered  less 
than  his  best. 

"Girls  like  Polly  get  to  Connor's — sooner  or  later," 
he  said.  He  had  grace  enough  to  flush  crimson. 

Glenn  came  nearer  to  him  now — she  was  at  close 
grip.  She  took  his  hands  and  said  quietly: 

"Honestly  Sam,  do  you  think  that  of  Polly  ?  Hon 
est  and  true.  Just  as  she  is  now — is  she  Connor's  kind  ? 
That  would  make  all  the  difference  in  the  world." 

Sam  hedged. 

"You  are  thinking  only  of  Polly — not  of  me.  What 
kind  of  a  hell  would  it  be  for  her  if — if  you  made  me 
marry  her?" 

"I'm  not  going  to  make  you,  Sam.  But  tell  me — 
is  she  that  kind?" 

Then  Morton  harked  back,  though  he  struggled 
against  the  stark  memories  that  arose — harked  back 


UNBROKEN  LINES  81 

to  the  nights,  when  tired  and  lonely,  he  had  reached 
his  cabin  and  found  the  fire  burning,  the  meal  ready, 
and  Polly  making  believe!  How  he  had  blinded 
himself — drugged  himself — let  himself  go!  But 

through  it  all  rang  the  one  great  truth:  Polly  was  not 
Connor's  kind.  It  was  only  when  Glenn  became  the 
greatest  thing  to  him  that  he  had  aroused. 

"It  isn't  up  to  a  man  to  keep  a  girl  straight  when 
she's  hell-bound,  anyway/'  muttered  Sam. 

"Maybe  not.  But  it's  up  to  a  woman.  It's  up 
to  me!"  Glenn's  eyes  blazed.  She  was  her  father's 
daughter — her  mother's  protector  at  last.  She  was 
her  truest  self! 

"What  do  you  mean,  Glenn?  You  ain't  going  to 
play  the  fool  are  you?" 

"I  don't  know.  I'm  going  to  keep  Polly  from 
Connor's." 

They  stood  facing  each  other  at  close  range.  Sam 
realized  that  if  Polly  stayed  at  the  Lodge — and  he 
felt  that  she  might — he  must  drift — where?  That 
would  be  the  code  of  the  heights.  The  mountains 
had  not  open  space  enough  around  the  Lodge,  for 
him  and  Polly — apart.  A  cowardly  impulse  of  self- 
preservation  shook  Sam.  He  was  as  wedded  to  his 
environment  as  the  rock  against  which  Glenn  leaned. 
She  had  fallen  away  from  Morton. 

"There  is  something  else, "  Glenn  said  simply. 

"Polly  is ";  she  looked  steadily  at  Sam.  The 

effect  of  the  look  upon  Morton  was  terrific.  He 
was  elemental;  he  suddenly  comprehended.  His 
character  was  like  a  crude  collection  of  blocks.  Each 
held  a  separate  emotion;  yearning,  passion,  or  virtue. 
They  had  never  flowed  together  or  commingled;  but 


82  UNBROKEN  LINES 

always,  pervading  everything  was  the  hall  mark  left 
of  his  lonely,  helpless  childhood.  Unfathered,  he 
had  begun  life  with  his  deserted  mother.  z  He 
had  not  understood,  until  long  after  her  death,  what 
it  had  all  meant.  After  she  went,  the  people  in  the 
small  western  town  had,  in  turn,  taken  Sam  in.  From 
house  to  house,  unwelcomed,  he  had  passed  with  his 
beggarly  little  bundle  of  ragged  clothing.  Children, 
keen  to  detect  differences,  had  made  life  bitter  for 
him  until  at  last  he  had  run  away  from  them  who 
had  made  no  effort  to  reclaim  him.  He  had  worked 
and  starved — stumbled  along  until,  from  sheer 
strength  of  character,  he  had  managed  to  get  his 
head  above  water  and  reach  the  mountain  heights. 
And  now  he  looked  blankly  at  Glenn.  It  was  one 
thing  to  let  a  woman  drift  to  Connor's — Sam  had 
early  grown  to  blame  his  dead  mother  for  her  part  in 
his  misery — but  to  let  another  child  know  what  he 
had  known  and  suffered!  That  was  quite  a  different 
matter. 

"You  mean ?"     Then,  suddenly: 

"My  God!" 

Glenn  knew  that  he  had  surrendered.  Something 
in  her  leaped  up  gladly.  Again  she  drew  near  Mor 
ton  and  took  his  hands. 

"Polly  is  still  making  believe,  Sam;  I  guess  she's 
that  kind.  And — and  I've  told  them  that  you  are — 
going  to  marry  her.  Dad's  arranging  the — the 
wedding." 

Sam's  eyes  had  the  expression  that  one  might  find 
in  the  eyes  of  a  man  who,  expecting  death,  was  given 
a  life  sentence.  He  was  bidding  good-bye  to  the 
free,  glad  open;  the  place  of  choice  and  happiness. 


UNBROKEN  LINES  83 

"That — that's  mighty  good  of  you  all,"  he  mut 
tered,  but  even  as  he  spoke,  his  hopeless  words  belied 
the  straightening  of  the  broad  shoulders  that  had 
accepted  the  burden  he  had  so  heedlessly  wrought  for 
himself. 

Then  something  of  the  old  dare-devil  came  to  the 
fore. 

"I'll  be  the  dummy  groom,  all  right.  But  Glenn, 
I  want  you  to  know — you've  got  to  know — it  was — 
the  kid;  and  don't  you  forget  that!  I  can't  make 
you  see  it — but  I  meant  fair  with  you,  as  Heaven 
hears  me!  Nothing  meant  as  much  as  you  un 
til " 

"I  understand,  Sam.     It  will  help  us  both." 

It  was  a  Christmas  wedding — Sam's  and  Polly's. 
Grey,  later,  wrote  it  into  a  good  story — a  story  that 
brought  a  smile  and  a  tear  to  many  a  seasoned  reader, 
back  among  the  commonplaces  of  life.  Some  people 
from  outlying  ranches  came  gleefully  to  the  feast; 
the  Pitkinses  arrived  in  force — a  proud,  soiled,  and 
irrepressible  lot.  A  minister  was  corralled  from  a 
village  fifty  miles  away.  He  was  escorted  by  some 
rollicking  cow-boys  who  made  life  hard  for  him,  on 
the  way  up.  They  refused  to  have  their  souls  saved, 
and  would  not  let  him  keep  his  own  free  from  con 
tamination.  They  made  him  believe  that  they  were 
as  bad  as  they  seemed  when,  in  fact,  they  were  the 
kindest,  most  genuine  youngsters  that  ever  harried 
a  Necessity.  That  is  what  they  dubbed  the  Rever 
end. 

"Your  name,  sir,  is  'Necessity',"  they  announced. 
"Folks  can't  begin  life  decently  without  you  and 


84  UNBROKEN  LINES 

they  can't  get  out  of  it  respectably,  without  you. 
Just  plain  'Necessity' — that's  your  number,  all 
right." 

And  then  they  swore  a  bit,  loudly  and  merrily,  and 
enjoyed  themselves  hugely.  But  once  they  reached 
the  Lodge  they  were  courtesy  itself  and  grew  quite 
sentimental  and  misty-eyed  when  the  minister  per 
formed  the  ceremony. 

Grey,  standing  at  a  distance,  looked  on  and  felt 
his  own  heart  throb  a  little  faster  than  usual.  He 
knew  that  he  was  in  the  dark  but  he  still  had  a  feeling 
such  as  he  had  once  experienced  when,  from  a  river 
bank,  he  had  watched  a  lonely  angler,  below,  poise, 
nicely,  a  glorious  prize.  The  moment  of  doubt  as 
to  whether  the  trophy  would  be  secured  or  not,  had 
set  his  blood  coursing  through  his  veins;  when  it  was 
landed  he  gave  a  shout  of  sympathy — a  shout  that 
no  one  noticed. 

Something  that  Glenn  had  very  much  wanted,  had 
come  to  pass.  Grey  was  rather  annoyed  at  himself 
for  caring  so  much  for  what  Glenn  wanted.  Per 
haps  there  was  something  to  say  on  the  other  side  of 
the  question — Morton's  side. 

Just  then  the  minister  waited  for  Sam's  reply  as  to 
whether  he  would  forsake  all  others  and  cling  only 
to  the  pale,  wistful  creature  gazing  mutely  into  space. 

"I'll  do  my  best,  sir!"  was  the  amazing  answer 
from  the  rigid-faced  groom. 

An  electric  thrill  ran  through  the  room;  and  then 
the  ceremony  proceeded  without  further  hitch. 

"By  the  Lord!"  muttered  Grey.  Then  he  thought: 
"The  fish  isn't  landed  yet,  by  a  long  shot."  He 
turned  his  eyes  upon  Glenn.  She  was  looking  at 


UNBROKEN  LINES  85 

him,  pleadingly.  He  smiled  and  nodded.  He  meant 
to  imply  to  her  that  it  was  all  an  amusing  incident; 
nothing  to  be  taken  seriously — by  him  at  least. 

The  thought  reached  the  girl's  trouble.  It  was 
more  to  her  to  think  that  Grey  suspected  nothing 
than  to  have  had  his  keenest  sympathy.  To  Glenn 
the  chasm  had  been  bridged — a  catastrophe  averted. 
The  way  on  ahead  might  be  difficult  but  it  certainly 
could  not  be  menaced  by  any  such  danger  as  had 
almost  made  her  lose  her  faith  in  her  little  world. 

The  festivities  lasted  until  late  afternoon  and  then 
the  guests  departed — Sam  and  Polly,  last  of  all. 
Surely  no  stranger  couple  ever  set  forth.  Up  the 
trail  they  went,  side  by  side,  hands  hanging  limp; 
their  faces  bent  and  no  word  passing  between  them. 

"Sam  sure  came  near  making  a  show  of  the  thing," 
Arnold  remarked  turning  from  the  door  and  closing 
it,  now  that  the  bridal  couple  had  passed  from  sight. 
"And  the  boys  from  the  ranches!  Did  you  ever  see 
such  polite  manners?  They  wanted  to  bu'st,  but 
they  corked  it  up.  The  preacher  sees  only  hell  and 
damnation  for  those  chaps  but  I  told  him  that  he 
could  take  it  from  me  that  most  of  them  would  have 
stars  set  thick  in  their  crowns  when  they  reached 
Kingdom-Come." 

Then  he  turned  to  Glenn  who  was  standing  by  the 
fire,  her  back  to  her  father  and  Grey. 

"Girl,  you  made  me  think  shame  for  you  when  you 
came  in  with  your  togs  on.  You've  got  clothes — 
why  didn't  you  wear  them?  Breeches  and  flannel 
shirt  at  a  wedding  and  a  girl  inside  them!"  Arnold 
sniffed. 

"Dad,  the  boys  would  not  have  known  me  in  fix- 


86  UNBROKEN  LINES 

ings.  I  would  have  upset  the  meeting."  Glenn 
smiled,  wanly,  as  she  spoke. 

"They  must  think  you  haven't  any,"  Arnold  went 
on.  "It's  a  waste  of  time  for  you  and  me  to  pick 
and  choose  from  the  catalogue  if  you  aren't  ever  going 
to  spruce  up.  You  might  have  worn  the  beads,  any 
way,  out  of  respect  for  me." 

"Dad!"  Glenn's  eyes  were  tear-filled.  Then  she 
looked  at  Grey. 

"I  have  beautiful  things,"  she  said,  as  simply  as  a 
child.  "Dad  sends  for  everything  that  is  pretty; 
some  day  I  will  prove  it.  It  isn't  Dad's  fault  that 
I  came  just  as  I  was  to  the  wedding.  At  first  I  only 
thought  of  Polly;  then — well  I  wanted  everyone  else 
to  keep  on  thinking  of  Polly.  It  was  Polly's  day, 


not  mine." 


tion." 


I  am  afraid  you  might  have  divided  the  atten- 


Grey  tried  to  look  indifferent  but  he  was  imagining 
the  girl — as  a  woman.  He  was  doing  that  more  than 
ever  lately.  It  always  ended  by  a  stern  resolve  on 
his  part  that  when  spring  came  he  would  go  back  to 
his  own  place!  Surely  nothing  very  serious  could 
happen,  even  with  his  friendly  weakness  considered, 
before  spring.  And  when  Grey  reached  that  point 
a  contempt  for  himself  steadied  him.  "Good  Lord ! " 
he  argued;  "why  must  a  man  or  a  woman  eternally 
mess  the  sex  idea  with  everything  else?  It's  all  right 
in  its  place,  but  it  has  a  place;  and  that  a  man  and  a 
woman  just  happen  to  be  together  doesn't  necessarily 
create  a  condition.  Lord!  Why  can't  I  stay  here 
and  enjoy  this  life  without ?" 

But  no  pebble  is  thrown  into  the  water  without 


UNBROKEN  LINES  87 

causing  a  ripple  that  reaches  the  farthest  shore.  The 
vivid  affair  of  poor  Polly  had  stirred  the  depths  of  the 
lives  closest  to  it  and  the  ripple  widened  its  circles 
and  touched  here  and  there,  as  it  grew.  It  touched 
Arnold,  making  him  more  tender  and  kindly  than 
was  his  wont  with  the  Pitkins  family.  He  recalled 
their  unselfishness  when  his  need  had  been  sorest — 
he  meant  to  do  something  for  Polly.  He  decided 
that  he  would  send  her  a  broncho  and  a  cow. 

Grey  felt  the  ripples  as  he  sat  alone  in  his  room 
trying  to  write  down  his  impressions  while  they  were 
fresh  in  his  mind.  He  fixed  upon  the  phase  that 
included  Sam.  He  felt  confident  that  Morton  had 
been  driven  to  marry  Polly  Pitkins.  Why?  Around 
that  little  word  the  whole  thing  revolved.  Women 
were  p.lways  so  much  more  concerned  with  a  danger 
close  at  hand  than  with  that  which  menaced  from  a 
distance.  But  were  they?  And  then  Glenn  came 
into  line  in  her  boyish  dress  and  her  elusive  beauty. 
How  splendid  of  her  to  have  kept  Polly's  day  intact 
when  she  might  so  easily  have  filled  it  with  herself 
and  her  achievement!  What  a  woman  she  would  be 
some  day  when  she  lived,  outwardly,  her  real  nature. 
And  then  Grey  visualized  her  and  fell  to  dreaming. 
He  did  not  write  much  on  his  story  that  night,  nor 
for  many  days  after. 

The  ripple  touched  Glenn.  The  next  morning 
she  came  downstairs  in  an  amazing  gown  which,  the 
catalogue  had  informed  her,  was  suitable  for  morning 
wear  in  the  country! 

Grey  never  could  describe  it.  He  had  never  seen 
anything  in  the  least  like  it,  but  it  had  the  power  of 
transforming  a  boyish-looking  girl  into  a  very  start- 


88  UNBROKEN  LINES 

ling  young  woman.  Its  power  was  impertinent  and 
oppressive.  It  called  attention  to  form  and  colour; 
it  pronounced  sex  in  clear  terms;  it  placed  Glenn  in  an 
entirely  new  position  in  regard  to  her  father  and 
Grey. 

Arnold,  viewing  his  daughter  dispassionately,  fell 
to  assuming  new  duties.  "You  cannot  slop  around 
in  a  dress  like  that,"  he  said;  "let  me  carry  the  water. 
So !  Now  then ;  you  wipe  the  dishes;  I'll  wash  them/' 

This  delicate  distinction  made  Glenn  smile  and 
when  she  smiled  both  Arnold  and  Grey  noticed,  for 
the  first  time,  that  her  beautiful  hair  was  dressed 
rather  ornately  and  that  it  left  the  nape  of  her  neck 
bare  and  exquisitely  white. 

The  morning  gown  gave  place,  a  few  days  later,  to 
another  of  deep,  golden  brown  tint,  which  seemed  to 
bring  out  all  the  unnoticed  glories  of  Glenn's  colour 
ing. 

If  the  girl  had  been  disturbing  in  the  morning 
gown,  she  was  positively  exciting  in  this  one.  Un 
consciously,  apparently,  she  arrayed  herself  and  went 
quietly  about  her  tasks.  If  her  eyes  were  a  bit 
brighter  and  sunnier  Arnold  attributed  it  to  the  fact 
that  she  was  "grown  at  last." 

But  the  continued  attention  to  dress  irritated  Grey. 
It  had  a  meaning  which,  somehow,  seemed  directed 
toward  him.  He  resented  this.  He  could  not  keep 
his  eyes  off  the  girl;  she  began  to  creep  into  his  stories. 
He  was  afraid  Beverly  Train  would  detect  her.  He 
ended  by  not  sending  manuscripts  to  Beverly!  "This 
will  never  do!"  he  said  to  himself.  "What  sort  of 
an  ass  am  I,  anyway,  to  let  myself  moon — when  there 
is  absolutely  nothing  to  moon  over  ? "  But  there  was 


UNBROKEN  LINES  89 

this  new,  woman-thing  introduced  into  the  isolation 
of  the  mountain  winter;  and  it  would  not  be  ignored! 

Then  came  the  days  when  Grey  sought  to  master 
situations;  when  he  feared  some  act  of  Glenn's  might 
turn  him  traitor  to  his  determination  to  keep  a  year 
of  his  life  clear.  He  wanted  the  present — nothing 
else.  He  acknowledged  his  own  changed  feeling  to 
ward  Glenn;  he  called  it  by  its  right  name,  but  he 
hoped,  until  the  year  was  over,  she  would  remain — a 
child. 

He  concluded  to  test  her  at  some  moment  when  he 
had  himself  well  in  hand.  He  believed  the  hour  had 
come,  one  day,  when  he  found  her  in  a  window  seat 
reading  a  novel  Beverly  Train  had  sent  for  his  con 
sumption — certainly  not  for  Glenn's. 

"Where  did  you  get  that  book?"  he  asked,  sharply; 
then  as  if  sorry  for  his  brusque  tone,  he  added: 
"You're  too  young  to  read  such  stuff." 

"Why,  I  should  think  it  is  when  you  are  young 
that  you  need  it.  When  you're  old,  it  doesn't  mat 
ter,  does  it?  It  is  true,  isn't  it,  Mac? — this  story,  I 


mean." 


Glenn's  eyes  had  a  deep,  intense  expression. 

"True?" — Grey  could  not  push  away  from  him  the 
faith  and  sweetness  in  the  girl — "why  yes,  in  a  way. 
It's  life." 

"Then  why  shouldn't  I  read  it?  Why  shouldn't 
I— know  life?" 

Grey  sat  down  in  front  of  the  girl  and  leaned  to 
ward  her,  his  hands  clasped  before  him.  "I  don't 
see  why  you  should  know  all  of  life;  none  of  us  do. 
If  you  happen  to  be  set  apart  from  the  grime  there 
is  no  reason  for  grubbing." 


9o  UNBROKEN  LINES 

Glenn  considered  this,  then  said  slowly;  "Of 
course.  But  you  see,  Mac,  you  never  know  when 
you  are  going  to  stumble  upon  any  particular  part  of 
life.  That's  the  trouble.  Now  this  girl" — Glenn 
touched  the  book —  "hadn't  the  least  idea  what 
she  was  to  go  through  after  she  met  the  man.  It 
seems  to  me — "  the  words  trailed  gently,  almost 
pleadingly — "it  seems  to  me  that  men  expect  a  good 
deal  of  women  considering  that  they  do  not  let  them 
know,  or  want  them  to  know,  everything.  It  is  this 
way" — and  now  Glenn  leaned  toward  Grey;  their 
extended  hands  almost  touched —  "this  man,  for  in 
stance,  married  the  girl  because  he  liked  a  certain 
kind  of  woman — a  woman  who  hadn't  the  least  bit  of 
knowledge  about  life  and — and  things.  Then,  once 
he  had  married  her,  he  expected  her  to  be  quite  an 
other  kind.  It  doesn't  seem  fair.  Is  life  fair, 
Mac?" 

"Not  always,  Glenn;  but,  after  all,  life  is  pretty 
much  what  we  make  it.  People  are  not  fair,  you 
know."  Then — so  abruptly  that  the  girl  fell  back — 
he  asked:  "Glenn,  why  do  you — wear  these  clothes?" 

"Wear  these  clothes?  Why  shouldn't  I  wear 
these  clothes ?  They  are  mine!"  The  purplish  eyes 
grew  dark  and  the  mouth  drew  in  at  the  corners. 
Besides,  I  wanted  you  to  know  that  I  have — clothes." 
"Is  that  all,  Glenn?"  Grey  kept  a  close  watch. 

"Well,  perhaps  not  quite  all.  You  see,  Mac,  I — I 
wanted  you  to — to  know  that  I  am  a  woman.  I  was 
afraid  that  you — you  might  not — might  not — you 
see!" 

Through  the  crust  of  girlhood  the  primal  force  was 
'pressing.  It  did  not  see,  in  Grey,  at  that  moment, 


UNBROKEN  LINES  91 

the  man;  it  saw  merely  Man,  and  every  sensitive 
nerve  quivered. 

Then  Grey,  blindly  seeking  to  set  right  a  condition 
too  delicate  for  any  handling,  said: 

"If  you  had  a  big  brother,  Glenn;  if  7  were  your 

big  brother  at  this  particular  moment,  I'd  tell  you 
.  )t 

'  "What,  Mac?" 

"Well;  stop  reading  that  book,  for  one  thing  and 
and " 

"Yes,  Mac." 

"Slip  into  your  boy-togs  again  for  as  long  as  they — 
they  fit  you."  Grey  laughed — a  bit  shamefacedly, 
to  be  sure — but  he  felt  that  he  had  saved  the  day  and 
safeguarded  the  future. 

Glenn  rose  quietly  and  held  the  book  out  to  him. 

"I  only  got  as  far  as  the  middle,  but  that  has  given 
me  a  lot  to  think  about.  I  am  going  up  now  to — 
to  put  on  my  togs!"  She  turned  from  him  with  a 
little  crinkling  of  the  eyelid. 

Grey  had  reinstated  the  old  relations  but  at  the 
cost  of  much  that  he  did  not  realize.  What  he  had 
sent  back,  to  its  dark  corner,  would  come  forth  again 
— and  soon;  but  not  for  a  second  repulse  from  him! 

The  ego  in  the  man  believed  that  it  could  hold  the 
perilously  sweet  condition  safe  until  such  time  as 
revealment  would  be  safe  and  sure.  But  a  man's 
ego  cannot  always  determine  situations;  the  woman's 
ego  plays  its  part  too. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

GREY  told  himself  over  and  over  again,  during 
the  weeks  following  Morton's  wedding,  that 
as  soon  as  spring  came  he  would  go  back  to  his 
place  and  stay  there  until  he  could  return  a  free  man. 
So  long  as  he  called  it,  and  recognized  it,  as  his  place, 
he  felt  secure  and  at  peace  with  his  conscience.  But 
the  trouble  was  that  Grey  was  merely  drugging  him 
self.  More  and  more  he  was  fitting  into  his  new 
environment;  developing  an  intense  interest  in  things 
and  people  near  him.  His  old  self,  native  of  what 
he  chose  to  term  his  "place,"  was  becoming  more 
and  more  his  subconscious  self — a  force  to  be  relied 
upon  for  inspiration  in  writing,  in  keeping  him  right 
with  his  conscious  self. 

Grey  became  expert  on  snow-shoes  and  he  often 
>vent  away  for  days  with  Arnold.  They  slept  at 
night  in  the  shelter  of  rocks,  with  lurid  fires,  set  in 
glistening  snow,  at  their  feet. 

The  two  men  grew  closer  until  Arnold  more  often 
called  Grey  "son"  than  by  any  other  name. 

When  they  were  away  Polly  would  sometimes 
stay  at  the  Lodge.  These  little  breaks  in  the  life  of 
the  Mortons,  Gray  looked  upon  with  favour.  He 
felt  that  the  strain  in  the  lonely  cabin  on  the  trail 
was  lessened  when  the  pressure  was  at  times  removed. 

"You  have  the  'feel'  of  the  trail,"  Arnold  once  said 
to  Grey.  "Now,  there 're  men  who  get  to  the  top, 

92 


UNBROKEN  LINES  93 

and  plucky  fellows  too,  but  they  never  have  the 
'feel' !  You  get  to  know  the  lack  when  you  are  with 
them." 

Grey  began  to  believe  he  was  getting  the  "feel" 
of  lives  in  a  way  that  he  had  never  known.  It  was 
not  sympathy  alone,  nor  a  desire  humanly  to  help; 
it  was  kinship,  a  common  tie,  and  he  often  wondered 
why  he  had  not  felt  it  down  among  his  own. 

"I  did  not  belong  in  the  procession,"  he  smilingly 
thought;  "I  was  too  apt  to  stop  and  get  out  of  step. 
Up  here  there  is  room  enough  to  let  others  pass — or 
wait  with  them." 

Daily,  Arnold  referred  to  the  summer,  and  of 
turning  some  of  his  guests  over  to  Grey.  He  took 
for  granted  that  Grey  would  remain. 

"I'm  tired  of  being  the  only  one  to  guide  them," 
he  said;  "there  are  times,  and  folks,  who  tempt  me — 
there  always  will  be;  but  Fd  like  to  know  that  I  could 
call  on  some  trusty  person,  like  you,  Mac,  when  I 
wanted  to  remain  behind." 

Grey  felt  flattered.  He  determined,  then  and 
there,  to  give  himself  a  summer.  It  would  round 
out  the  year.  He  would  then  go  back  to  his  place 
and  honestly  confront  life  with  a  clear  conception  of 
exactly  what  he  owed  it. 

Having  settled  that  question  in  his  own  mind  he 
permitted  his  roots  to  sink  a  little  deeper  into  the 
soil;  he  became  more  and  more  interested  in  the 
Mortons,  for  instance.  "The  fish,"  he  mused,  "is 
not  landed  by  a  long  wriggle." 

Morton  he  had  seen  was  a  born  rover.  Spiritually, 
as  well  as  physically,  he  was  happiest  when  drifting. 
But  Grey  noticed  that  when  Sam  took  time  to  pause, 


94  UNBROKEN  LINES 

his  cabin  home  meant  much  to  him.  So  Grey,  rather 
boldly,  conceived  a  plan  which,  while  attracting  Sam 
to  his  home  place,  would  give  Polly  a  joy  she  had 
never  known  and  perhaps  most  of  all  please  Glenn 
to  such  an  extent  that  her  twinkling  eyelid  would 
come  into  play.  Grey  often  watched  for  the  pretty 
trick.  He  was  living  on  trifles — and  living  happily. 

Poor  Polly  was  feverishly  making  believe  until  her 
thin  little  face  had  become  tragic  and  her  weak  chin 
was  taking  on  firmness.  But  all  the  make-believe 
in  the  world  could  not  put  actual  pictures  on  rough 
walls,  nor  give  the  grace  of  physical  comforts  to  a 
bare,  mountain  shack.  With  the  help  of  Beverly 
Train,  who  had  a  passion  for  playing  middleman,  a 
detachment  of  wedding  presents  found  their  irregular 
way  up  to  Morton's.  What  joy  and  solace  they 
brought  could  not  be  expressed,  but  Sam's  shy  grin 
and  Polly's  quick,  grateful  tears  gave  some  evidence 
of  what  they  meant. 

Glenn  made  no  remark.  Since  the  day  when  she 
had  handed  back  the  novel  to  Grey  and  had  resorted 
to  her  knickerbockers  her  attitude  had  been  one 
that  a  watchful  big  brother  might  have  applauded, 
but  which  Grey,  in  no  wise,  understood. 

This  should  have  pleased  Grey,  but  it  often  dis 
turbed  him.  At  times  it  positively  alarmed  him. 
It  well  might  be  that  he  had  misunderstood  the  whole 
situation  and  when  he'd  done  his  part — his  conscien 
tious  part — he  insisted  upon  calling  it  that — he 
might  find  that  his  backings  and  fillings  had  not  con 
cerned  Glenn  Arnold  in  the  least!  That  she  had 
never  needed  his  protection  from  himself. 

Thus  does  a  detached  life  act  and  react  upon  small 


UNBROKEN  LINES  95 

happenings,  but  do  as  he  might,  struggle  as  he  did 
to  be  sensible,  the  girl  in  the  Lodge  was  always  on  the 
sky-line  of  Grey's  future.  Her  tenderness,  her 
strength,  her  sense  of  justice,  and  her  high  spirits, 
thrilled  him;  but  most  of  all,  the  new  sense  of  com 
radeship  that  Glenn  evolved  awoke  new  interests. 
And  so  he  was  off  on  the  old  line  of  hope,  despair 
and  silent  resolve  to  hold  to  his  ideals. 

Hitherto  women  had  largely  touched  his  sym 
pathy  or  compassion.  They  had  been  weak,  or 
wronged,  or  exploited.  There  had  been  some  call 
upon  his  protection,  but  here  was  a  woman  who 
reached  out  to  him  a  frank  equality  that,  to  some 
men  might  have  been  repelling,  but  which  was,  to 
Grey,  a  singular  attraction.  "One  would  only  have 
to  love  her!"  he  thought — "love  her  without  quali 
fications  or  excuses.  She  would  never  keep  you 
guessing,  but  her  faith  would  mean  all  a  man  ought 
to  ask  for,  from  his  woman." 

It  had  been  a  slow  progression  on  Grey's  part,  this 
development  of  his  love  and  desire;  but  when  he 
accepted  it  his  life  was  suddenly  transformed — and 
irrespective,  too,  of  Glenn. 

Of  course  this  was  all  dangerous  and  the  outcome 
of  too  concentrated  a  life.  Unless  he  was  prepared 
to  take  a  definite  stand  he  had  no  right  to  remain  at 
the  Lodge — knowing  what  he  did,  of  himself. 

One  day  Polly  Morton  let  a  little  light  in  upon 
Grey's  confused  ideals.  Glenn  had  asked  him  to  go 
and  bring  Polly  to  the  Lodge. 

"Sam's  off,"  she  explained,  "he  stopped  early  this 
morning.  Tell  Polly  my  feet  are  twinkling."  Grey 
laughed  at  the  "twinkling"  as  applied  to  feet.  "Polly 


96  UNBROKEN  LINES 

will  understand.  When  we  were  very  little  and  I 
got  the  twinkles,  Polly  never  questioned.  She  did 
her  tasks  and  mine  while  I — ran  away!  I  evened 
up,  when  I  came  back.  Polly  always  knew  that  I 
would.  Lately  I've  had  a  fancy  for  doing  something 
quite  freaky  and  I'm  going  to  get  Dad  to  do  it  with 
me.  We're  going  to  walk  by  night  and  sleep  by 
day;  I  want  to  see  how  the  world  looks  turned  inside 
out!" 

"What  an  idea!"     Grey  was  caught  by  the  fancy. 

"Isn't  it  great  ? "     Glenn  was  in  high  spirits. 

"It's — it's  weird,  "  Grey  replied.  Then  he  added: 
"But  it's  rather  splendid.  I'd  like  to — to  share 
such  an  experience. 

"If  you  were  my  father,  Mac — or  my  big  brother! — 
I'd  invite  you."  And  with  that  Glenn  made  a  wry 
face  at  him. 

Grey  turned  away.  He  knew  the  eyelid  was 
about  to  perform  and  he  did  not  care  to  see  it — just 
then.  So  he  strode  off  to  Polly's. 

He  found  her  sitting  by  the  window  of  her  little 
living  room,  her  hands  idly  folded  over  a  workbasket 
on  her  lap.  The  door  was  open,  just  as  Sam  had  left 
it  when  he  passed  out;  something  in  Polly  demanded 
freedom  to  follow.  The  woman  hardly  heeded  Grey's 
entrance,  though  she  did  speak  quietly  to  him. 

"Mooning,  Polly?"  Grey  sat  down  and  looked 
at  the  little  woman  with  interest. 

"Queer  thoughts  come  sometimes,  Mr.  Mac.  They 
come,  by  themselves." 

"Yes;  they  do.  At  least  we  are  not  conscious  of 
creating  them.  But  what  particular  queerness  has 
caught  you  now,  Mrs.  Sam  Morton?" 


UNBROKEN  LINES  97 

Her  own  name  seemed  to  startle  Polly — to  fix  her 
roving  fancy. 

"It's — it's  about  Sam,  Mr.  Mac.  And  I  guess  it  is 
in  us  all  alike — it  is  something  that  no  one  can  get  to, 
or  touch  and  I  reckon  no  one  ought  to,  either.  And 
when  your  love  is  big  enough  to  see  that,  then,  it's 
odd,  but  the  thing  doesn't  fly  off  from  you  so  much. 
It — well,  it  is  not  afraid  any  more  and  it  trusts." 

Grey  puckered  his  brows.  He  understood,  but 
was  puzzled  by  the  realization  that  he  did  under 
stand. 

"The  thing  in  Sam  that  likes  to — to  roam  and  be 
by  itself,"  Polly,  seeing  the  pucker,  became  more 
definite:  "it  just  was  real  afraid  that  I  was  going  to 
lay  hold  of  it,  Mr.  Mac;  and  at  first  I  did  want  to — it 
was  what  I  wanted  most  to  get.  It  hurt  cruel — 
when  I  couldn't.  Then,  sudden-like  I  got  to  seeing 
there  was  something  in  me  that  held  off  from  Sam. 
I  couldn't  even  talk  to  him  about  it,  and  if  he  had 
tried  to  clutch  it — well,  he  couldn't  any  more  than 
I* could  clutch  that  something  in  him;  and  then  I 
grew  quiet  and  real  happy  and — and  rested.  After 
awhile,  I  can  hardly  tell  you  Mr.  Mac,  but  it  was  as 
if  Sam  got  to  understanding,  and  now  when  he  goes 
off — he  really  doesn't  seem  to  be  off — off  where  I 
cannot  reach  him.  I've  worked  it  out  in  my  own 
mind  that  the  two  soulthings  in  us — in  Sam  and  me — 
have  an  understanding  of  their  own;  and  that's  why." 

Grey  did  not  speak  for  a  moment.  He  looked  be 
yond  the  woman  in  the  chair  by  the  window;  he  saw 
Glenn  and  the  vital  meaning  that  she  represented  to 
him.  He  believed  that  she,  too,  must  understand! 
The  thought  was  a  comfort. 


98  UNBROKEN  LINES 

"Yes,  you  and  Sam  are,"  he  said  presently,  "in 
deed  all  of  us,  every  mother's  son  and  daughter 
of  us — holds  the  meaning  of  all  the  others — like  a 
kernel."  Then  he  got  up  and  stretched  himself  as 
one  does  with  a  growing  pain. 

"Glenn's  feet  are  twinkling!  She  said  that  you 
would  understand/'  he  spoke,  abruptly. 

Immediately  Polly  was  changed.  Her  eyes  bright 
ened;  her  lips  parted. 

"I  bet  she  wants  to  take  to  the  trail  on  some  fool 
lark,"  she  said. 

"That's  about  it" — Grey  assented — "walking  by 
night  and  resting  by  day.  A  mad  idea,  but  rather 
Glennish." 

Polly  got  up.  As  she  did  so  her  hands  fell  away 
from  her  work-basket  and  there,  in  full  view,  was 
something  that  has  had  power,  always,  to  stir  the 
heart.  It  was  a  tiny  garment,  absurdly  fragile  and 
dainty — a  waiting  shell;  a  hope  to  be  realized;  an 
evidence  of  a  mother's  faith  in  things  unseen. 

By  a  quick  movement  Grey  grasped  the  basket  and 
put  it  out  of  sight — he  felt  unworthy  to  gaze  upon  it; 
it  was  a  holy  thing!  It  explained  everything  like  a 
flash  of  light.  Very  quietly,  a  little  later,  he  and 
Polly  went  down  to  the  Lodge. 

Now  whether  Glenn  had  only  made  an  excuse  to  get 
Polly  away  from  home  no  one  ever  knew,  but  once 
she  had  achieved  what  she  desired  she  made  no  men 
tion  of  "twinkling"  feet,  and  the  freakish  idea  of  the 
night  walk  was  not  referred  to.  The  girls  worked 
and  often  sat  apart.  When  Sam  returned  he  was 
urged  to  stay  on  at  the  Lodge  and  assist  in  some 
work  Arnold  had  undertaken  on  a  lean-to  shed.  Grey 


UNBROKEN  LINES  99 

felt  himself  pushed  aside  a  little  and  he  wondered 
if  Glenn  was  wiser  than  she  seemed,  or — indifferent  ? 

And  thus  the  time  passed — so  rapidly,  that,  almost 
before  any  one  had  realized  that  it  was  near,  spring 
came  to  the  heights!  It  came  rather  violently,  turn 
ing  the  streams  into  rivers  and  the  rivers  into  dash 
ing,  roaring  cataracts.  The  snow  was  torn  from  its 
holdings  and  swept  away;  sturdy  bloom,  which  had 
been  but  waiting  its  chance,  surprisingly  raised  its 
brave  head  and  the  mountains  were  radiant!  The 
Monk  was  particularly  jubilant;  his  white  plume  was 
daily  flying. 

Arnold  went  forth  more  often  alone,  for  it  was  his 
habit,  once  winter  was  gone,  to  get  a  comprehensive 
idea  of  what  had  taken  place.  Sometimes  he  came 
back  bearing  in  his  arms  a  wounded  or  a  sick  animal 
— bear  cub,  or  innocent-looking  mountain  lion. 

"We'll  mend  them  up,  poor  creatures,"  he  would 
say;  "  but  keep  in  mind  what  they  are.  Don't  forget 
the  blood  that  runs  through  them.  A  lion  is  mostly 
lion,  and  it  is  apt  to  break  out  early.  A  cub  gets  to 
be  a  bear  sooner  than  you  might  expect." 

This  was  interesting. 

"Don't  you  think  you  could  train  the  bear  and  the 
lion  out  of  them?"  asked  Grey. 

"And  if  you  did  what  would  you  have?"  countered 
Arnold,  looking  amused.  "I've  tried  it,  but  it  isn't 
satisfying.  You  somehow  feel  as  if  you'd  spoiled  a 
good  job.  There  are  sorts  that  can  bend  and  yield — 
run  close,  yet  never  break — but  not  the  genuine  sort." 

"I  guess  that's  true,"  Grey  admitted. 

It  was  in  May  that  Arnold  left  the  house  one  morn- 


ioo  UNBROKEN  LINES 

ing  before  the  family  was  astir.  For  some  reason 
Glenn  when  she  appeared,  resented  this,  rather  an 
grily. 

"I've  known  for  days,"  she  said, "that  Dad  was 
going  to  sneak  away  to  the  Monk.  He  wants  to 
make  sure  that  everything  is  safe  on  the  trail,  and 
then  he  means  to  take  me.  Just  think,  I've  never 
been  yet!  But  I  don't  want  things  made  easy — I 
want  to  fight  my  way  up,  beside  him.  He  had  no 
right  to — sneak  off!  It's  been  the  dream  of  my  life 
to  go  with  him." 

Grey  laughed.  "I  reckon  he  knows  what  he  is 
about,"  he  suggested. 

"He  took  the  pups,"  said  Polly;  "they're  missing. 
I  guess  he  wanted  to  train  them  a  bit." 

"And  Rajah?"  queried  Glenn. 

"No,  Rajah  is  plain  sulking;  he  looks  like  you." 

"Very  well,"  Glenn  suddenly  declared,  beaming. 
"Rajah  and  I  will  follow  on,  Mr.  Daddy!" 

"Do  you  want  any  other  company?"  ventured 
Grey,  looking  hopeful. 

"I  don't,  really,  Mac."  Then,  as  if  she  relented; 
"But  at  three  o'clock,  if  we're  not  back,  you  may 
come  and  meet  us.  You  know  the  Monk  trail,  don't 
you  ?  It's  the  worst." 

"All  right.  In  the  meantime  I'll  get  my  cabin  in 
order." 

Grey  had  taken  one  of  the  near-by  cabins  and  was 
giving  it  a  permanent  air  that  was  most  unconvincing 
whenever  his  projected  leave-taking  was  under  dis 
cussion.  He  had  a  bedroom,  a  study,  and  a  kitchen; 
already  the  rooms  had  the  appearance  of  a  home. 

At  nine  o'clock  Glenn  departed,  Rajah  at  her  heels; 


UNBROKEN  LINES  101 

a  goodly  lunch,  in  a  gunny  '-sack,'  hanging  on  her 
back.  '  '.  '  •••":;;,•:'>  :"  !  i  A 

It  was  a  glorious  day.  The  air  was  balmy,  but  keen. 
There  was  the  smell  of  growing  things  at  every  turn. 
While  Polly  sang  in  the  Lodge,  Grey  whistled  in  his 
cabin;  but  not  for  a  moment  did  he  forget  that  at 
three  o'clock  he  might  take  to  the  Monk  trail. 

He  made  his  own  mid-day  meal  in  his  newly  equip 
ped  kitchen.  He  was  vigorously  reaching  out  in 
every  direction  in  order  to  be  a  "regular,"  not  a 
foreigner.  Surely  such  discipline  would  not  come 
amiss  in  any  walk  of  life,  he  argued. 

The  clock  was  barely  through  with  its  third  stroke 
when  Grey  was  on  the  trail.  Polly  looked  after  him; 
from  the  heights — and  depths — of  her  wisdom  she 
smiled,  vaguely.  The  thought  that  she  held  made 
her  happy,  though  the  thing  she  thought  about  had 
brought  her  much  heartache.  With  it  all  Polly  felt — 
she  could  not  express  it,  but  she  felt — that  it  was 
truly  worth  while.  It  held  the  meaning  of  life — life! 

Grey — mounting,  mounting,  the  worst  trail  of  all- 
was  thinking,  more  coherently,  the  same  thought. 
This  welling-up  of  fountains  he  had  never  suspected 
caused  him  both  happiness  and  pain.  It  was  some 
thing  to  know  what  real  love  was.  It  was  not  given 
to  everyone  to  distinguish  between  the  real  and  the 
unreal.  The  old  conception  that  he  had  once  held 
amused  him.  Even  before  his  life  had  been  twisted 
from  its  own  course,  he  had  had  but  a  poor  ideal 
compared  to  this  simple  creed,  regarding  love,  that 
held  him  now.  "It  is  civilization  that  has  played 
havoc  with  the  best  that  is  in  us" — he  mused,  stum 
bling  on;  "not  having  patience  to  wait  until  we're 


102  UNBROKEN  LINES 

needed,  We  patch  iip  something  that  we  imagine  is 
real**  .This  was.  all  rvery  'comforting,  viewed  from 
his  own  point  of  view,  but — lately — Glenn  had  puz 
zled  him.  It  was  not  going  to  be  all  his  own  way — 
Grey  smiled  rather  grimly.  "Women  at  the  best — 
or  the  worst,"  he  thought  "are  complex." 

And  then  he  gave  himself  up  to  contemplation  of 
the  dangerous  by-paths  which,  far  too  often  of  late, 
he  had  been  longing  to  explore.  With  absorption  as 
absolute  as  that  of  any  youngster  during  his  first 
love  affair,  he  revelled  in  the  delights  of  possibilities, 
all  tinged  by  his  desire.  He  found  much  comfort  in 
the  conclusion  that  such  emotions  as  he  was  ex 
periencing  could  never  have  acquired  the  power  they 
had  unless  they  were  fed  upon  reality.  Glenn  might 
be  complex;  she  might  be  wise  and  fine  enough  to 
shield  herself  from  him;  but  he  felt  confident  that 
from  behind  her  defence-works,  she  suspected  all  his 
feeling  for  her;  that  she  returned  it,  too,  in  her  shy, 
sweet  way;  that  she  knew  there  must  be  some  cause 
for  his  silence,  and  was  willing  to  trust. 

It  was  during  these  mental  ramblings  that  Grey 
became  aware  that  only  Glenn's  footsteps  and  Ra 
jah's  were  before  him.  He  wondered  if  Glenn  had 
noticed  that  her  father's  prints  had  departed  from 
the  way?  Or  perhaps  she  knew  of  a  shorter  cut  that 
would  join  the  trail  later.  However,  Grey  was  not 
following,  or  seeking  to  follow,  Arnold;  he  had  but  one 
object  in  mind  and  was  doggedly  keeping  to  that. 
Glenn  was  too  well  trained  to  lose  her  head  he  knew. 

When  the  day  began  to  darken  he  had  a  moment  of 
unrest;  conventions  held  him  at  times,  most  unex 
pectedly.  His  first  thought  was  for  Glenn.  Sup- 


UNBROKEN  LINES  103 

pose  that,  when  he  reached  the  rocks,  he  should  fail 
to  keep  to  her  path ! — a  night  on  the  mountains,  alone, 
would  be  a  test  for  nerves  as  strong  even  as  Glenn's. 
Then  again,  suppose  he  did  overtake  her,  and  he  and 
she  were  forced  to  seek  shelter  until  morning!  This 
supposition  was  alluring  as  well  as  disturbing.  Grey 
recalled  Glenn's  wild  fancy  for  turning  night  into 
day  and  his  pulses  quickened  as  he  imagined  the  long, 
starry  hours  of  the  night — the  awaiting  the  new  day! 
However,  for  the  present  there  was  nothing  to  do  but 
to  plod  on.  This  he  did,  but  more  slowly,  for  he 
was  tired  and  it  was  becoming  more  and  more  difficult 
to  see  the  tracks. 

Presently  Grey  was  aware  of  a  great  peace  and 
happiness  overcoming  all  his  other  sensations.  He 
calmly  contemplated  the  years  on  ahead.  As  his 
body  mechanically  pressed  forward,  so  did  his 
thought.  He  meant  to  live  up  to  his  ideals  now  that 
he  had  disentangled  himself  from  the  trivialities  of 
his  life.  He  meant  to  fulfil  his  duties  and  obliga 
tions;  to  prove  that,  to  him,  they  were  facts — not 
mere  moonshine  as  many,  among  them  his  oldest  friend 
Dick  Carrington  for  instance,  had  often  termed  them. 
Grey  had  not  thought  of  Carrington  lately,  but  now 
he  regarded  him  and  his  conception  of  life  as  directly 
opposed  to  his  own.  "Odd,"  he  thought,  "how  two 
fellows,  jogging  along  in  pretty  much  the  same  road, 
can  get  such  different  views  and  come  to  such  differ 
ent  conclusions." 

Throughout  all  these  idle  conjectures,  Glenn  was 
spiritually  beside  Grey.  Through  her,  his  ideals  of 
marriage,  home,  life-work,  and  all  the  rest,  ran  with 
out  check.  As  Sam  Morton  once  had  said,  Glenn 


io4  UNBROKEN  LINES 

"fitted  in";  she  was  that  kind  of  woman.  And  Grey 
felt  that  it  was  because  she  recognized  in  others  the 
"something"  which  Polly  had  described  as  a  thing 
not  to  be  touched,  that  she  was  so  satisfying.  "And 
when  the  thing  is  not  touched" — Grey  thought,  in 
the  darkness,  for  it  was  quite  dark  now — "it  grows 
unafraid  and  draws  close  to  the  same  thing  in  others. 
It's  the  big  understanding  of  the  best!  It's  the  only 
safe  hold  men  and  women  have  upon  each  other." 

And  then,  because  he  could  not  see  any  mark  be 
fore  him,  Grey  kept  his  eyes  lifted.  He  was  seeking, 
now,  a  light  in  the  little  half-way  house.  That  was 
the  next  hope  to  which  he  must  cling.  He  had  been 
there,  a  few  weeks  before,  with  Arnold — on  his  rounds 
of  preparation.  "A  night  here  is  quite  an  experience 
for  climbers,"  Arnold  had  explained;  "the  sunrise 
isn't  bad  from  the  doorway." 

By  early  evening,  Grey  knew  he  should  reach  the 
shelter.  He  would  doubtless  find  both  Glenn  and 
Arnold  there  and  they  three  would  make  a  night  of  it. 
Alone,  under  the  stars,  he  and  Glenn  might  watch 
the  night's  mystery.  It  would  be  the  high  point  of 
his  life,  Grey  realized — that  moment  when  with  love, 
self-acknowledged  but  secret,  he  could  look  forward 
to  a  certain  line  of  action,  severed,  finally,  from  a 
mistaken  sense  of  duty. 

The  last  bit  of  the  trail,  before  reaching  the  shelter, 
was  the  most  difficult  of  all.  It  took  nerve  and 
muscle  to  master  it,  especially  in  the  dark.  And  in 
spite  of  himself  Grey  was  anxious. 

Falling  over  rocks,  sinking  into  puddles,  feeling  the 
way,  he  mounted  higher  and  higher.  He  was  long 
past  the  timber  line.  The  stars  above  him  were 


UNBROKEN  LINES  105 

superb;  the  sky  had  the  blue-black  colour  that  was 
such  a  perfect  background  for  the  snowy  peaks. 
Presently  on  ahead,  at  some  distance,  he  saw  a  point 
of  light. 

"The  shelter !"  he  exclaimed;  "and  they  are 
there." 

He  went  forward  with  renewed  vigour.  His  weari 
ness,  bruises  and  lameness  were  forgotten. 


CHAPTER  IX 

STRANGE  to  say,  Glenn  had  not  noticed  that 
her  father's  footprints,  early  in  the  climb,  had 
departed  from  the  trail.  So  confident  was 
she  that  he  had  gone  toward  the  Monk,  that  after 
accepting  this  theory  the  matter  had  slipped  from  her 
attention.  It  was  no  easy  climb  at  the  best  and  it 
took  a  good  deal  of  concentration  to  keep  on  the  path 
— if  path  one  could  call  the  opening,  cluttered  with 
rocks,  fallen  trees  and  muddy  snares.  Rajah  was 
non-committal.  He  would  go,  of  course,  but  he  had 
his  opinion  of  that  form  of  outing. 

At  noontime  the  girl  and  the  dog  were  in  the  open, 
above  the  trees,  on  clean  rocks.  They  paused  to  eat 
and  to  rest;  Glenn  made  a  cheerful  little  fire  and  be 
came  ridiculously  joyous.  "Rajah,  when  Dad  sees 
us,  he'll  say  a  bad  word  first  and  then  laugh  after. 
He'll  know  that  he  cannot  sneak  from  us!"  But 
later  on,  in  the  afternoon,  Glenn  grew  more  serious. 
She  realized  that  she  could  not  make  the  summit; 
she  would  not  attempt  it.  She  could  not  hope,  even, 
to  overtake  her  father;  she  would  have  to  wait  for 
him  at  the  half-way  house.  "He  will  come  upon  us 
in  the  shelter,"  she  comforted  herself;  "and  then, 
perhaps — Mac  will  fetch  up!  Rajah;  I  wonder  if 
you  are  satisfied  with  just  being — a  dog?" 

There  was  a  strange  light  in  the  girl's  eyes.  If  in 
spring  a  young  man's  fancy  turns  to  love,  how  about 

106 


UNBROKEN  LINES  107 

a  girl's?  If  Grey's  wells  of  primitive  emotions  had 
overflowed  their  well-constructed  banks,  what  could 
be  said  of  this  rushing  flood  of  life,  and  love  of  life, 
that  were  sweeping  through  this  girl,  whose  sweet, 
free  years  had  put  no  obstacle  in  its  path  ?  She  had 
not  reached  the  discriminating  point — almost  any 
one  with  love  as  an  offering  would  tempt  her.  It 
was  springtime  and  she  was  young.  She  even  for 
got  Grey's  repulsings — they  did  not  enter  into  her 
present  mood. 

The  story  of  her  mother  had  opened  the  gate  be 
tween  childhood  and  womanhood.  Sam  Morton's 
crude  touch  had  set  something  vibrating.  Later, 
Polly's  tragedy  had  brought  a  distinct  note  to  the 
fine  instrument  of  Glenn's  imagination.  The  anti 
cipation  of  Polly's  baby  had  awakened  the  maternal, 
that  lies  so  near  to  all  love  in  woman.  It  had  purified 
and  given  meaning  to  all  the  rest. 

And  now,  ready  for  the  master  hand,  with  the 
world  wakening  to  the  warm  touch  of  life,  Glenn — 
feeling,  yet  not  knowing,  love — toiled  in  the  gloaming 
to  the  little  shelter  by  the  trail. 

Her  father  was  not  there!  He  had  not  been  there; 
he  might  not  come  all  night!  Not  suspecting  that  he 
was  followed,  preferring  the  open  to  any  form  of 
cover,  he  would,  undoubtedly,  make  his  fire,  find  a 
hole  in  the  rock  and  take  his  ease  in  his  own  way 
wherever  night  chanced  to  find  him.  Too  late,  this 
realization  dismayed  Glenn. 

"It  looks,"  she  said,  lighting  the  fire;  "it  looks, 
Rajah,  old  man,  as  if  you  and  I — you  and  I — would 
have  it  all  to  ourselves  to-night." 

But  as  she  spoke  Glenn  was  estimating  how  long 


io8  UNBROKEN  LINES 

it  would  take  Grey  to  reach  her.  "He'll  never  turn 
back,"  she  thought.  "We'll  eat  the  scraps" — she 
had  saved  them  from  her  noonday  meal — "we'll 
sit  by  the  fire;  he'll  tell  me  a  story."  Her  eyes  wi 
dened  and  deepened;  they  were  now  the  colour  of  the 
blue-black  sky,  but  no  one  was  there  to  glory  in 
them. 

It  was  very  hot  in  the  little  shelter,  and,  lying 
curled  up  on  the  hearth,  her  head  upon  Rajah's  will 
ing  body,  Glenn  fell  asleep.  She  felt  herself  going — 
and  made  no  effort  to  keep  awake.  She  would  hear 
any  approach;  it  was  only  napping  after  all,  until  her 
father — or  Grey — appeared ! 

And  wandering  close  to  the  borderland  of  con 
sciousness,  a  strange  dream  drew  the  girl  relentlessly 
into  its  power.  She  seemed  to  be  on  the  trail  again — 
happy  and  refreshed.  She  seemed  to  know  the  way 
perfectly;  a  bit  on  beyond  would  be  the  ticklish  strip 
of  rock-path,  just  before  you  came  to  the  lake  whose 
water  was  as  blue  as  the  sky!  And  then  presently 
she  was  on  the  narrow  ledge  of  rock — walking  cau 
tiously,  but  with  no  fear.  She  did  not  raise  her  eyes 
— the  sight  of  the  blue  lake  might  undo  her.  (Her 
father  had  cautioned  her  about  this!)  She  wondered 
in  her  deep  sleep,  where  her  father  was;  he  seemed  to 
be  near  her,  but  out  of  sight.  Safely  she  crossed  the 
rocks  and  came — just  as  her  father  had  said  she 
would — upon  the  wonderful  scene  that  he  had  kept 
just  for  her!  It  was  marvellously  beautiful  and  there 
were  flowers  close  to  the  edge — such  lovely  flowers! — 
just  as  her  father  had  described.  But  how  lonely  it 
was — and  how  still!  She  was  waiting — waiting  for 
some  one.  Was  it  her  father? — or ?  Then  she 


UNBROKEN  LINES  109 

knew,  sitting  there  by  the  water  that  she  was  waiting 
for  Grey!  Grey  meant  more  even  than  her  father! 
How  strange  that  was!  And  it  did  not  make  her 
unhappy;  it  was  as  it  must  be — things  always  were, 
if  they  were  not  bungled.  Her  father  knew  that,  as 
well  as  she.  And  just  then  she  thought  she  saw  a 
man  coming  across  that  ticklish  bit  of  trail!  He  had 
his  arms  stretched  wide,  like  one  who  was  blind;  he 
was  feeling  his  way.  Her  breath  came  short  and 
hard.  It  mattered  more  than  anything  else  in  all 
the  world,  the  safe  passage  of  that  man  upon  the 
ledge!  The  dream  became,  at  that  point,  a  night 
mare.  And  how  slow  the  man  walked! — how  he 
swayed !  And  then  he  stopped  short — turned  wildly, 
and— fell— fell— fell! 

After  what  seemed  an  eternity,  the  limp  form  lay 
at  Glenn's  feet.  The  body  was  lifeless — crushed — 
but  the  upturned  face  was  calm  and  unhurt.  She 
gazed  amazedly  upon  it  and  saw  that  it  was  not 
Grey's  face!  It  was  a  new,  a  strange  face — one  that 
she  was  never  to  forget.  It  was  a  face  whose  calmness, 
not  even  violent  death  could  change.  The  opened 
eyes  were  calm,  too — frozenly  calm.  They  chilled 
Glenn  even  while  sleep  held  her.  The  lips  were  set 
firmly  and  the  chin  was  like  iron  in  its  rigidity. 

Fascinated  by  the  quiet,  dead  face,  held  captive 
by  the  spell  that  controlled  her,  Glenn  was  yet  con 
scious  of  being  glad  because  it  was  not  Grey  who  lay 
at  her  feet! 

And  then  she  ceased  to  dream:  she  sank  into  ob 
livion  and  slept  on  and  on. 

It  was  while  she  lay  thus,  relaxed  and  at  rest,  that 
Grey  reached  the  shelter  and  looked  in  at  the  small 


no  UNBROKEN  LINES 

window.  The  sight  sent  the  blood  coursing  through 
his  veins!  His  hand  was  on  the  latch 

Just  then  a  curious  thing  occurred:  Grey  thought 
of  Beverly  Train!  His  hand  fell  as  if  a  power  had 
removed  it.  He  was  angry — helpless — amused. 
What  did  it  mean  ?  Why  should  he  not  go  in  ?  What 
else  was  there  for  him  to  do  ? 

But  he  did  not  go  in!  "The  year!  You  will 
never  be  sure,  never  confident,  unless  you  hold  to  the 
covenant  you  made  with  yourself."  The  thought 
seemed  to  become  vocalized.  It  rang  in  the  silence. 

Grey  looked  at  the  sleeping  girl — so  far  beyond  his 
reach  and  yet  so  appealingly  near — and  wondered 
why  she  did  not  waken  ? 

There  suddenly  came  a  realization  of  the  moment's 
meaning,  and,  with  it,  an  overwhelming  conception 
of  himself  that  never  before  had  been  suspected.  He 
had  been  caught  in  time — had  been  saved  by  what 
was  best  in  him,  from  that  which  was  less.  He  had 
narrowly  escaped  being  carried  away  by  passion 
but  he  had  dared  to  believe,  even  in  that  humil 
iating  moment,  that  he  had  meant  no  injustice  to  the 
girl.  Nevertheless  he  acknowledged  to  his  honest 
self  that  had  any  wrong  happened  it  would  have  been 
because  of  that  unseen  power  outside  of  himself. 

There  were  times  in  Grey's  after  years  when  he 
was  to  look  back  at  those  hours  and  feel  that  they 
were  the  holiest  he  had  ever  known.  He  was  to 
know,  too,  that  they  never  would  have  been  so,  had 
he  gone  inside  the  cabin.  In  his  blindness  and  self- 
sufficiency  he  had  all  but  stumbled  into  the  pit  where 
in  have  fallen  so  many  who,  like  him,  overestimated 
their  strength.  He,  for  the  moment  had  been  mas- 


UNBROKEN  LINES  in 

tered.  In  similar  circumstances  men  and  women 
had  done  deeds  for  which  they  had  paid  by  years  of 
remorse;  Grey  was  in  a  deep  sense  understanding 
his  kind  with  a  sympathy  born  of  similarity.  While 
these  fevered  thoughts  ran  on — barely  heeded,  con 
sciously — Grey  was  watching  the  sleeping  girl — 
watching  her,  withdrawing  from  her,  planning  to 
guard  her  against  harm — against  himself! 

At  last  he  stepped  noiselessly  away.  He  found  a 
crevice  in  a  rock  and  by  some  sacrifice  of  comfort, 
began  his  vigil.  He  and  Glenn  were  to  watch  the 
mysteries  of  the  night — but  apart. 

But  as  Grey  crouched  in  his  crevice,  the  hours 
went  majestically  on.  At  last  came  the  stirring; 
it  was  as  if  the  command  "Let  there  be  light"  were 
again  moving  the  darkness;  the  mystery  of  birth  was 
on  the  heights,  and  Grey  watched  it  with  a  deeply 
religious  thought.  Quietly  the  high  peaks  signalled 
the  day;  they  flushed  and  radiated  with  welcome. 
And  just  then  the  door  of  the  shelter  opened — Grey 
was  watching  it — and  Glenn  and  Rajah  came  out. 
Troubled  by  her  dream  of  the  night  and  the  call  of 
the  dawn,  the  girl  stood  with  uplifted  arms — like 
one  waiting  for  a  gift — or  a  burden!  Her  face  was 
grave  and  tense.  She  was  offering  a  prayer  of  grati 
tude,  longing,  and  faith.  "O  God/'  she  cried,  softly, 
and  the  words  reached  the  man  in  the  rock  crevice. 
It  was  an  appeal  to  the  Infinite — a  seeking  of  the 
Most  High. 

Then  the  mood  passed  and  the  girl  turned  her  at 
tention  to  Rajah  who  responding  to  the  instincts  of 
his  nature,  was  alert  and  on  guard — his  nose  close  to 
the  earth.  "Shame,  sir!  It's  not  like  you  to  want 


ii2  UNBROKEN  LINES 

to  harry  any  poor  creature  shivering  in  its  hole  in 
fear.  Come  in  sir!"  They  went  inside,  but  the 
door  remained  open. 

Presently  Rajah  came  forth,  alone.  He  had  chosen 
a  moment  when  his  mistress's  eyes  were  off  him.  He 
came  quickly,  unerringly  to  the  spot  where  Grey 
crouched.  He  came  close  and  showed  his  teeth  in 
that  broad  dog-grin  of  his  that  proved  his  sense  of 
humour.  Grey  reached  out  and  took  the  shaggy 
head  in  his  arms;  he  looked  into  the  humanly  appeal 
ing  eyes. 

"  It's  a  great  joke,  old  chap,  isn't  it  ? "  he  whispered, 
"the  greatest  old  joke  that  was  ever  set  loose  in  the 
world.  Go  back,  boy,  go  back  to  her;  and  be  glad — 
since  you  do  not  know  any  better — be  glad  that  you 
are  the  kind  of  dog  you  are !" 

In  another  half  hour  Glenn  came  again  into  view. 
She  had  extinguished  the  fire  and  laid  another  ready 
to  light.  She  closed  the  door,  whistling  to  Rajah, 
and  then  she  turned  down  the  trail.  She  had  no 
taste — now — for  the  peak;  she  was  cramped,  hun 
gry,  and  lonely.  Her  dream  haunted  her;  she 
wanted,  more  than  anything  else,  home!  A  thin, 
filmy  snow  had  fallen  during  the  night  and  foot 
prints  were  obliterated. 

Grey  waited  until  the  girl  and  the  dog  were  out  of 
sight;  then,  indifferent  as  to  possibilities,  he  struck 
out  to  the  left  of  the  trail;  imperilled  life  and  limb; 
and  managed,  at  the  end  of  an  hour,  to  sweep  around 
to  the  beaten  tracks  and  confront  Glenn  as  she  wear 
ily  descended. 

"You — so  you  were  looking  for  me?"  she  asked? 
a  gladness  creeping  into  her  eyes. 


UNBROKEN  LINES  113 

"Yes,  child.  Of  course.  I  left  on  the  last  stroke 
of  three." 

"And  you  got  lost?     Poor  Mac!" 

"Well — only  for  a  short  time,"  replied  Grey, 
slowly  weighing  his  words. 

"I  was  in  the  shelter  all  night,  quite  safe,  Mac." 

"Yes.  And  I  was  in  a  crevice  of  the  rocks;  it  was 
quite  splendid — the  night,  I  mean." 

Glenn  looked  up  quickly.     Her  eyes  grew  alert. 

"What  rocks,  Mac?" 

"What  rocks?  Glenn;  how  can  I  answer  that? 
When  one  is  beyond  the  timber  line,  rocks  are — 
rocks!" 

"Did  you  follow  me?" 

"Yes.  I  saw  your  footprints  part  of  the  way.  On 
the  rocks,  I  lost  them." 

"But — but  did  you  notice  that  mine  were  the  only 
ones?" 

"Yours  and  Rajah's;  yes." 

Glenn  turned  from  him.  Again  he  had  pushed 
back  to  its  place  that  spiritual  seeking  of  her  soul  on 
its  quest  of  life.  She  was  hurt — dismayed. 

"And — you  let  it  go  at  that!"  she  said,  quietly  but 
with  an  injured  tone.  "You  took  chances;  but  per 
haps  it  was  because  you  did  not  know  the  danger!" 

And  at  that  something  in  Grey  knew  resentment. 
After  all  he  had  understood  of  danger,  this  was  a  poor 
return ! 

"Perhaps — I  did  not,"  he  answered,  rather  grimly. 
And  they  made  the  rest  of  the  way  in  silence. 

When  they  reached  the  Lodge  all  thought  of  them 
selves  was  temporarily  forgotten,  for  there  sat  Ar 
nold,  his  foot  in  a  tub  of  hot  water,  and  Polly  was 


ii4  UNBROKEN  LINES 

standing  affrightedly  beside  him  like  a  priestess  at  her 
rites.  Arnold  was  using  strong  language — a  rare 
indulgence  for  him — and  when  he  caught  sight  of 
Glenn  and  Grey  he  burst  forth  with  renewed  energy. 

"Slipped!  Me!"  he  almost  screamed.  "Slipped, 
by  the  Lord  Harry!  Me!  Forty-eight  years  I've  kept 
upright  and  yesterday  a  pebble — a  pebble! — turned 
me  down  like  a  crumpled  leaf!  I  had  to  crawl — 
crawl,  Grey,  like  a  snake — for  more  than  half  a  mile. 
Polly  saw  me  and  pulled  me  in,  all  the  pep  taken  out 
of  me." 

Arnold  was  suffering  and,  in  his  relief  at  seeing 
Glenn  and  Grey  safe,  he  had  let  himself  go. 

"Dad,  Dad!  You  poor,  blessed,  old,  silly  giant." 
— Glenn  was  beside  Polly  and  the  steaming  tub — 
"don't  go  fashing  yourself.  This  will  teach  you  to  be 
human  with  them  who  do  fall.  Run,  Polly;  get 
bandages  and  liniment.  Now,  then  Mac,  help  me  to 
bind  up  this  old  ogre's  ankle.  We've  got  him  now! 
This  comes,  sir,  of  sneaking  off  to  the  Monk  alone  1 
It  serves  you  right  for  deserting  me." 

"How  did  you  know,  girl?"  Arnold  was  soften 
ing;  he  saw  tears  in  Glenn's  eyes. 

"By  the  light  of — my  star!"  she  whispered.  But 
Grey  did  not  understand. 

"What  did  you  think  of  me — not  coming  after 
you,  girl?"  The  roughness  was  all  gone  now  from 
Arnold's  tones. 

"I  thought  you  did  not  know,  Dad." 

Then  Arnold  turned  to  Grey,  "But  you  followed! 
You're  the  stuff,  son.     Where  did  you  find  her  ? " 

"He — he  didn't  find  me,"  Glenn  put  in,  hastily;  "I 
made  the  shelter  and  stayed  there  by  myself." 


UNBROKEN  LINES  115 

"And  you,  Mac  ? "    Arnold's  eyes  were  keen. 

"Well,  when  I  went  as  far  as  I — as  I  could  see  the 
trail,  I  got  into  a  crevice  of  the  rocks,  took  a  smoke, 
and  waited  until  I  could  get  the  lay  of  the  land  in  the 
morning.  I — I  sensed  that  Glenn  had  got  to  the 
shelter.  Indeed  I  made  sure  of  that  and " 

But  a  twinge  of  agony  saved  the  hour.  Arnold 
did  not  ask:  "What  rocks?",  nor:  "How  did  you 
make  sure?" 

The  days  that  followed  were  too  full  of  Arnold  and 
his  needs  to  admit  of  any  trivial  affair  assuming  im 
portance.  Self-sufficient  and  unselfish  in  health, 
Arnold  became  a  martinet  in  bondage.  With  his 
injured  foot  resting  on  a  chair,  he  regarded  it  as  a 
personal  enemy — a  thing  detached  from  his  healthy 
body  and  menacing  all  the  future. 

"God!"  he  confided  to  Grey;  "this  may  make  an 
eternal  cripple  of  me.  I've  never  had  an  ache  or  a 
pain  in  my  life  before." 

"Nonsense,  Arnold.  It's  only  a  sprain.  Not  a 
very  serious  one.  But  suppose  I  ride  down  to  Con 
nor's  and  see  if  I  can  scare  up  a  doctor?"  In  spite 
of  himself  Arnold's  attitude  impressed  and  worried 
Grey. 

"No,  you  don't,  Mac.  I've  seen  enough  of 
doctors.  There's  only  one  that  I  would  let  touch 
me,  or  mine,  and  he  doesn't  come  until  July;  got  a 
ranch  twenty  miles  beyond  Connor's.  Davis  is  his 
name;  he  knows  how  the  Lord  put  the  human  frame 
together  and  what  he  made  it  of — the  rest  of  the 
batch  only  guess.  No  guessing  on  me,  son!  I'd 
rather  die  here  with  that  enemy  facing  me" — here 


u6  UNBROKEN  LINES 

he  shook  his  fist  at  his  foot — "than  let  any  guesser 
take  another  guess  on  me." 

To  Glenn,  Arnold  confided  the  belief  that  he  was 
not  long  for  this  world  and  commanded  her  to  write, 
at  once,  to  a  Denver  lawyer,  who  had  all  his  business 
affairs  locked  in  a  drawer  in  his  desk. 

"And  I  guess,  girl,  when  I'm  gone  you'd  better  get 
down  where  that  blamed  teacher-chap  said  you  ought 
to  go." 

"In  the  procession,  Dad?"  Grey  was  amused  at 
the  girl's  smiling  calm.  She  did  not  fear  for  her 
father. 

"Yes,  darned  fool  that  he  was!" 

"Mac  will  be  able  to  help  me,  Dad.  We've  talked 
it  over.  That  nice  Miss  Train  will  teach  me  how  to 
parade,  I  know." 

This  was  made  of  whole  cloth  and  on  the  spur  of 
the  moment.  Grey  laughed  as  he  watched  the  effect 
upon  Arnold.  At  once  the  nervous  man  made  an 
effort  to  get  control  of  himself.  He  saw  through  the 
ruse,  and  was  ashamed. 

"Well,"  he  said,  presently,  with  a  twinkle  of  the 
eye,  "Since  you've  done  all  the  arranging,  I  don't 
know  but  what  I'll  give  you  a  little  more  trouble — 
and  stay  on." 

From  that  moment  he  began  to  mend.  But  other 
forces  contributed  to  the  result.  Spring  planting  had 
to  be  attended  to.  Arnold  had  delayed  it  while 
engaged  in  the  more  congenial  tasks  of  overlooking 
the  trails.  The  need,  now,  was  imperative.  Sam 
Morton,  on  his  return,  was  urged  to  lend  a  hand,  and 
Grey  bent  his  own  back  to  the  tilling  of  the  soil  in 
real  earnest. 


UNBROKEN  LINES  117 

"You  certainly  are  becoming  a  'regular',  son/' 
exclaimed  Arnold  cheering  him  approvingly,  "and  it 
means  more  to  me  than  I  can  tell  you.  Being  tied 
here  and  helpless"  [he  glared  at  his  foot]  "my  old 
life  seems  mighty  fine  to  me  and  you  are  helping  to 
make  it  possible.  Just  think  of  never  getting  to  the 
tops  again!  Think  of  your  soul  climbing  out  of 
your  carcass  and  going  up  and  on,  while  the  carcass 
just  rots  in  the  Lodge!  If  that  was  to  be  my  fate " 

The  sweat  stood  out  on  Arnold's  brow.  Glenn 
was  standing  by  the  fire  place,  at  that  moment 
— standing  just  where  she  had  stood  the  day  when 
she  suggested  to  Grey  to  try  a  turn  in  the  open,  after 
his  illness.  Her  face  was  whimsical,  tender,  and 
piteous — but  a  bit  anxious. 

"Dad,"  she  said,  softly,"why  don't  you  try  to 
stand — and  see  what  happens?" 

"Eh?"  gasped  Arnold,  "stand  on— that?  "—he 
pointed  to  the  slippered  offender. 

"Yes,  Dad.  Here  are  Mac  and  I  ready  to  give  a 
hand  if  you  crumple.  But  the  swelling  is  all  gone, 
Dad;  I  honestly " 

Arnold  was  dazedly  putting  his  foot  to  the  floor. 
Gradually  he  rose,  breathlessly — stood ! 

"Well  by  the  Lord!"  he  gasped  and  took  a  step, 
paused;  straightened  himself,  winced;  tried  it  again 
and  then,  shamefacedly,  confronted  his  audience. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  said  to  Grey,  "I  had  an  idea 
that  there  was  a  gap  between  me  and  my  ankle.  But" 
— he  smiled, — "I  see  I  am  still  joined  together." 
Then  he  turned  to  Glenn:  "And,  girl;  I  guess  we'll 
let  those  papers  down  in  Denver  gather  a  little  more 
dust." 


n8  UNBROKEN  LINES 

"Dear  old  Dad — of  course  we  will!"  Glenn  was 
glowing  and  happy  in  her  relief.  "But  go  slowly, 
dear;  you're  all  right,  but  you  haven't  been  quite 
fair  to  your  foot;  it  may  resent  it,  you  know — just  at 
first." 

The  little  shoulder  was  within  reach.  Grey  saw 
Arnold  grip  it  with  his  big,  tender  hand,  and  the  sight 
moved  him  curiously.  He  seemed  to  feel  the  firm, 
tender  flesh  in  his  own  hand;  he  found  himself  closing 
his  fingers,  tight.  He  shut  his  eyes,  still  he  could  see 
that  radiant  head  going  before  him  leading  him, 
leading  him — not  Arnold. 

Grey  was  up  to  his  old  trick  of  dreaming.  Feeling 
secure,  he  dreamed  on.  Where  another  man  would 
have  put  his  hope  to  the  test,  Grey's  faith  never 
wavered.  "And  above  all,"  he  insisted  to  his  soul, 
"when  I  tell  my  love,  it  must  not  be  shadowed  by 
another  woman's  misery — if  I  can  help  it." 


CHAPTER  X 

ANOLD  was   a   changed    man.     This    struck 
Grey  as  consumedly  comical,  but  the  weeks 
of  suffering — slight   as    that    suffering  had 
been — had  flooded  Arnold  with  a  new  light. 

"Mac,"  he  often  said,  "I  thought  I  was  fairly 
understanding,  but  Lord!  you  cannot  know  anything 
until  you've  gone  through  it.  Why,  suffering  and 
pain  make  black  white  and  white  black,  without  any 
consent  of  your  own.  Folks  cannot  be  what  they 
might  be — when  they're  throttled." 
}-Grey  recalled  the  night  at  the  half-way  house  and 
nodded. 

In  this  softened  mood  Arnold  harked  back  to  the 
time  when  his  wife  had  drifted  out  of  life  on  the  last 
wave  of  bodily  torture.  Then,  quite  naturally,  he 
thought  of  Polly  and  her  coming  motherhood — a  re 
flection  that  included  Sam,  in  a  strange  way.  Arnold 
had  a  strong  desire  to  make  Sam  more  considerate 
and  gentle.  He  thought  of  many  things  that  he, 
himself,  might  have  done,  long  ago,  if  he  had  better 
understood  pain — and  pain's  effects.  "Especially 
on  anything  so  helpless  as — as  some  women,"  he 
concluded.  "Sam  will  regret  every  heedless  word 
and  act  when  he  stands  apart  while  Polly  rights  her, 
fight  alone." 

And  then  Arnold  looked  at  his  own  girl  and  his 
eyes  dimmed.  He  saw  in  her — Woman!  And  withj 

119 


120  UNBROKEN  LINES 

that  vision  there  came  wide  vistas,  before  which  his 
spirit  bowed  humbly. 

He  wanted  Glenn  to  know,  of  course,  the  heights 
and  the  depths  of  all  that  her  nature  craved;  but  he 
grew  weak  at  the  realization  of  the  terrible  price  to 
be  paid — in  suffering.  He  began  to  have  fears,  too, 
that  because  of  his  selfish  love  and  life,  she  might 
lack  opportunity.  Many  things  that  the  young  pro 
fessor  had  said  came  vividly  back  to  him.  No  longer 
did  he  resent  them;  he  grasped  the  wisdom  of  them; 
but  he  was  helpless.  How  could  he  send  the  girl 
away?  How  could  he  go  with  her?  Whither  could 
they  go  to  find — her  trail?  What  was  her  trail,  any 
way? — and  could  any  one  find  it  but  herself? 

By  all  these  signs  Grey  and  Glenn  believed  that 
Arnold  for  the  first  time  in  his  experience,  was  a  vic 
tim  of  nerves;  and,  not  being  very  wise,  although 
exceedingly  loving  and  devoted,  they  exerted  them 
selves — to  the  exclusion  of  their  own  affairs — to 
supply  his  needs.  Grey  proudly  led  Arnold  forth  to 
view  the  results  of  his  farming;  Glenn  got  her  mando 
lin  out  and  invented  several  new  chants  that  were 
designed  for  amusement — not  criticism;  and  Grey's 
comments  on  them  were  a  realization  of  the  result 
desired. 

The  Lodge  atmosphere,  presently,  became  less 
strained;  Arnold's  nerves  calmed;  and  everyone, 
even  little  Polly,  showed  relief.  Grey  gave  some 
thought,  now,  to  his  own  work,  and  his  cabin.  The 
latter  was  an  expression  of  his  needs — his  tastes. 
Not  a  chair  or  book-shelf  but  filled  a  want.  He  could 
think  out  his  problems  before  his  own  hearth  as  he 
could  nowhere  else;  and  his  wide,  hand-made  desk 


UNBROKEN  LINES  121 

was  cluttered  with  work  that  daily  was  attacked  with 
vigour,  now  that  Arnold  was  himself  once  more. 

Glenn  would  wander  in  and  out;  she  never  dis 
turbed  Grey;  often  her  silent  presence  was  an  in 
spiration.  Sometimes  she  would  bring  her  sewing 
and  sit  by  his  open  door — rarely  speaking,  rarely 
looking  at  him,  but  filling  him  with  a  sense  of  her 
nearness.  This  consciousness  of  her  presence  had  the 
power  to  clarify  his  thought  and  set  it  free — there 
seemed  to  be  a  mental  stimulus  flowing  from  the 
silent  girl  to  the  working  man. 

All  this  was  very  dangerous,  though  no  one  seemed 
to  realize  it.  Arnold  was  never  one  to  question  a 
state  of  affairs  that  seemed  to  offer  no  cause  for 
alarm.  Grey  was  a  man  to  whom  life's  experiences 
would  always  come  slowly,  because  of  his  own  de 
termination  to  hold  them  off  until  he  could  accept 
them  conscientiously.  Glenn,  with  the  heritage  of 
her  sex,  was,  perforce,  silent  because  she  dared  not 
speak.  Day  by  day  she  brought  her  offering  to  her 
secret  altars  and  wondered,  subconsciously,  why  they 
were  not  received.  She  did  not  question;  she  was 
happy,  but  she  was  perplexed.  At  such  an  epoch  a 
false  note  might  turn  into  discord  all  the  pleasant 
tune  of  life,  and  early  in  June  it  struck. 

Skirting  their  own  problems,  Grey  and  Glenn,  as 
often  happens,  took  the  problems  of  others  to  illus 
trate  the  trend  of  their  own  thoughts.  Polly  and  Sam 
were  the  convenient  vehicles  just  then.  They  stood, 
in  the  narrow  environment,  for  the  eternal  verities. 

"I  wish  that  Polly"  said  Glenn  one  early  evening, 
sitting  by  Grey's  door,  "would  not  forget  that  she 
is  Polly,  as  well  as  Mrs.  Sam." 


122  UNBROKEN  LINES 

"Does  she  forget  it?"  Grey  asked.  He  was 
rummaging  through  his  papers;  their  disorder  an 
noyed  him  but  he  knew  he  would  always  be  dis 
orderly. 

"Well,  if  she  doesn't"  Glenn  went  on,  "she  thinks 
it  a  virtue  to  make  believe.  I  don't  see  why  a  woman 
cannot  be — well — just  herself.  She  always  has  to 
try  to  be  what  a  man  expects — in  this  case  what  Sam 
expects ! "  By  keeping  the  line  of  thought  focused  on 
Polly  and  Sam,  Glenn  could  better  air  her  opinions. 

"You're  mighty  wise,  child,  aren't  you?"  Grey 
gave  a  laugh  and  mentally  tried  to  get  beside  Sam 
in  this  clash  of  ideas.  There  were  times  when  he 
felt  a  strong  sympathy  for  Morton.  He  knew  that 
the  poor  fellow  was  trying  to  live  up  to  the  promise  of 
his  marriage  day,  but  it  must  be  devilish  hard  to  be 
conscious  always  of  Glenn's  watch  upon  him. 

"One  has  to  be,  when  she  has  the  Pollys  and  the 
Sams  on  her  hands,"  Glenn  replied  flippantly. 

"It's  not  up  to  you,  my  dear  girl,  to  run  the  uni 
verse."  Grey  was  thinking  of  Beverly  Train's  warn 
ing  to  him. 

"Oh!  well" —  Glenn  was  determined  to  keep  the 
conversation  impersonal — "Sam  hasn't  the  least  idea 
what  sort  of  woman  he  wants.  Polly  could  afford  to 
be  the  kind  she  likes  best."  Grey  contented  himself 
with  a  scoffing  laugh. 

Glenn  went  on,  "Polly  has  the  chance  to  make 
herself — since  she  is  bound  to  try — into  the  kind  Sam 
ought  to  want." 

"He  might  not  like  it  after  the  job  was  done," 
Grey  argued,  in  the  defence  of  his  sex.  "He  has 
some  choice,  you  know,  as  to  likes  and  kinds." 


UNBROKEN  LINES  123 

"Yes;  but  if  Polly  really  tried  to  be  the  best  sort 
she  knows  how  to  be — good  enough  to  have  little 
children  and  to  thank  God  for  them — Sam  ought  to 
like  that  kind,  oughtn't  he?  You  see,  Mac,  as  I 
watch  Sam  and  Polly  it  does  seem  to  me  that  their 
chance  of  keeping  each  other  would  be  greater — if 
they  both  had  something  bigger  than  themselves. 
They  just  get  edgy,  rubbing  against  their  difficulties/' 
Conversation  was  becoming  more  serious.  And  now 
Grey  came  to  the  door  and  stood  above  Glenn. 

"Wait  until  you  are  in  love,"  he  ventured  calmly — 
watching  her  keenly.  "I  think  you  ought  to  leave 
something  to  Love  to  work  out." 

Glenn  raised  her  eyes  to  him  and  he  saw  they  were 
misty.  "I  know,  Mac,  and  it  makes  one  afraid. 
Love  ought  to  mean — the  wide-open  door,  oughtn't 
it  ?  But — so  often — it  seems  to  shut  the  door.  And 
then  I  get  to  wondering  what  a  man  and  a  woman 
think — behind  the  door.  After  all,  Mac,  God  does 
give  to  a  man  and  a  woman  something  that  He  is 
going  to  ask  for,  some  day.  It  cannot  be  given  to 
anyone  else  to  answer  for.  I  think  that  is  why  He 
made  them — man  and  woman,  just  to  help  one  an 
other  make  that  something  stronger  and  better.  Oh, 
Mac,  I  am  so  sorry  when  I  see  folks — folks  like  Polly 
and  Sam — just  wearing  out,  when  they  ought  to  be 
getting  stronger." 

"Is  there  anything  new  up  the  trail,  Glenn?"  Grey 
asked  this  doubtfully  for  he  felt  that  Glenn  was 
merely  using  Sam  and  Polly  as  marionettes.  She  was 
pulling  the  strings — making  them  dance  to  her  tunes. 

Again  he  had  the  overpowering  desire  that  he  had 
felt  the  night  when  he  had  stood  at  the  door  of  the 


124  UNBROKEN  LINES 

half-way  house:  to  cast  all  barriers  down  between 
him  and  the  girl  near  him.  But  again — as  then — 
something  stronger  than  his  impulse  and  his  longing 
stayed  him. 

Glenn,  almost  afraid  of  what  she  did  not  under 
stand,  in  Grey's  attitude,  ran  on  a  bit  breathlessly: 
"I  told  Polly  that  I  wished  she  and  Sam  would  push 
each  other  out  of  the  way,  once  in  awhile,  and  live — 
well,  sort  of  separate." 

"Why,  child,  you're  a  regular  rebel!  You'll  end 
by  demoralizing  the  whole  social  structure,  beginning 
with  Polly  and  Sam,  if  you  don't  look  out!"  Grey 
laughed  and  sat  down  on  the  step  beside  the  girl — he 
felt  that  he  dared!  "You'll  turn  the  procession  into 
a  mob  by  such  ideas." 

"Will  I  really,  Mac?" 

"Girl,  you  'won't  be  let* — as  the  children  say!  We 
all  get  attacks  of  taking  a  fling  at  the  thing  we  call 
life — but  I  rather  imagine  Life  looks  after  its  own 
laws  fairly  well.  You  see,  there  are  quite  a  lot  of 
people  coming  after  us  and  they  must  have  some 
thing  to  do." 

"But,  Mac,  we  can — try." 

"That's  about  all,  child.  Now  I  have  a  plan. 
Let's  work  with  what  we  have — not  bruise  ourselves 

creating  new  tools.     Let  us  begin,  say,  with  Polly's 
)> 

eyes. 

"What  a  funny  idea,  Mac."  Glenn,  more  spirit 
ually  than  physically,  moved  away. 

"Her  eyes  are  great,  and  they  are  getting  greater. 
We'll  live  up  to  the  eyes.  I'm  not  so  sure  either  you 
or  I  could  change  Polly  much,  insidt ',  but  we  can 
dress  her,  outwardly;  and  Sam  certainly  does  sit  up 


UNBROKEN  LINES  125 

and  take  notice  when  anything  new  and  pretty  gets 
on  his  horizon.  I  heard  a  story  once  of  how  a  woman 
got  her  husband's  love  back  by  wearing  a  pink  silk 
dressing-sacque!"  Glenn  looked  more  and  more 
puzzled.  It  was  not  exactly  pleasing  to  find  how 
easily  Grey  became  absorbed  in  Polly.  "Polly  cer 
tainly  looks  a  freak,"  Grey  went  on.  "I  don't  know 
much  about  her  soul,  but  I  do  know  that  her  general 
appearance  is  sloppy." 

"I  never  thought  of  that,  Mac.  She  is  dowdy." 
This  came  vaguely. 

"I'm  going  to  turn  Beverly  Train  on  her,"  declared 
Grey,  swaying  back  and  forth  in  an  ecstasy  of  vision. 

Beverly  Train,  heretofore,  had  been  to  Glenn  but  a 
medium  for  carrying  out  Grey's  ideas  as  to  furniture 
and  hangings  for  the  Morton's  cabin;  but  now,  Grey 
brought  her  humanly  close.  He  wanted  Glenn  to 
know  her — love  her. 

"I  often  think  that  God  took  the  biggest  heart  and 
mind  He  had  and  put  them  in  the  smallest  body  that 
would  hold  them,"  he  mused,  looking  far,  far  down 
the  trail  as  if  he  saw  his  friend.  "She  was  born  with 
a  hump  on  her  back,  too  heavy  for  her  poor  little 
legs  to  carry,  so  she  took,  early,  to  a  long  wheel 
chair.  She  studied  and  grew  very  wise.  That  she 
survived,  lived  at  all,  is  a  miracle,  but,  having  decided 
to  live,  she  put  her  soul  and  mind  to  the  task;  and 
she  has  done  wonders.  She  specializes  in  women 
and  children;  nothing  stands  between  her  and  them; 
they  adore  her.  Men,  occasionally  find  her  out, 
too.  She  studied  law;  her  father  was  a  judge.  I've 
heard  people  say  that  he  was  the  only  just  judge  they 
had  ever  known.  Beverly  is  rich  and  manages  her 


126  UNBROKEN  LINES 

i 

affairs  alone.  She  has  an  old  home  in  Boston  and  a 
wonderful  place  some  miles  out  of  town.  She  revels 
in  flowers  and  she  always  has  people  to  serve  her  who 
owe  her  about  all  they  have  in  life — though  she  will 
not  admit  that.  Her  voice  is  the  loveliest  I  have 
ever  heard  and  from  that  chair  of  hers  she  covers  a 
great  distance.  She  reached  to — me;  and  I'm  going 
now  to  put  Polly  within  range  of  her  touch." 

"Oh,  Mac!"  Glenn  was  half  crying.  "How  I 
would  love  Beverly  Train.  I  never  thought  of  her 
otherwise  than  as — well,  as  a  person,  your  friend, 
some  one  you  knew.  But  now;  why,  she  is  mine — > 
everybody's.  What  are  you  going  to  tell  her  to  send 
to  Polly?" 

"I  shall  tell  her  nothing  after  I  have  put  Polly 
where  she  can  see  her.  Beverly  will  do  the  rest.  I 
am  going  to  write  to-night." 

It  would  be  difficult  to  express  what  Glenn  was 
thinking  as  Grey  talked  on  of  Beverly  Train  and 
Polly.  She  was  interested,  deeply  touched,  but 
also,  in  a  sense,  hurt.  Grey  in  his  efforts  to  please 
and  divert  was  creating  a  distance  between  himself 
and  her.  He  was  not  conscious  of  this,  but  she  was; 
and  it  chilled  her.  It  was  all  very  fine — this  effort 
for  Polly  and  Sam — but  Grey  was  overdoing  it. 

"I'll  go  over  to  the  Lodge  and  leave  you  to  write 
the  letter,"  said  Glenn  as  she  got  up  and  walked 
away.  She  seemed  almost  majestic. 

"Why,  Glenn,  what  is  it?"  Grey  felt  as  if  the 
girl  had  hit  him.  And  then — because  after  all,  as 
Grey  himself  said  Life  does  look  after  its  own  laws 
— the  girl  turned  her  head  and  laughed  merrily.  The 
laugh  marked  the  dividing  of  the  ways. 


UNBROKEN  LINES  127 

"There  isn't  anything,"  she  called  back.  "Why 
should  you  think  there  is?"  She  was  driving  him 
to  the  open. 

"Glenn!" 

But  she  ran  on  leaving  Grey  to  wonder  far  into 
the  night. 

On  the  following  day  Grey  and  Arnold  went  for  a 
climb.  Arnold's  ankle  was  about  as  strong  as  ever, — 
but  the  bare  sight  of  a  pebble  in  his  path  still  had  a 
bad  effect  upon  his  nerves.  Grey  accompanied  him 
with  misgiving.  He  had  to  go  without  seeing  Glenn. 

"People  will  soon  be  coming  for  the  summer," 
Arnold  said,  "I  must  be  in  shape." 

They  made  a  successful  trip  and  came  in  late  and 
tired.  Sam  had  arrived  with  the  mail  and  Grey  took 
his  over  to  his  cabin.  He  decided  to  prepare  his 
evening  meal  and  go  later  to  the  Lodge.  He  ate; 
and  then,  from  healthy  weariness,  he  fell  asleep  in  his 
chair  by  the  fire.  He  slept  for  two  hours.  Then, 
suddenly,  he  awoke — to  find  Glenn,  sitting  across 
the  hearth,  watching  him  with  fixed  and  waiting 
glance. 

"Good  Lord,  child!  Anything  the  matter?"  he 
asked,  sitting  up.  Now  that  she  was  near  him  his 
moodiness  passed.  He  had  been  hungry  for  her  all 
day. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  slowly;  "something  is,  Mac. 
A  very  queer  thing  has  happened." 

"What?"     Grey  was  impressed. 

"A  man  has  come  to  the  Lodge;  some  one  from 
Connor's  brought  him  up." 

"Well?— what  of  that?" 

"Mac,  do  you  remember  the  dream  I  told  you 


128  UNBROKEN  LINES 

about;  the  dream  I  had  that  night  when  I  slept  in 
the  half-way  house — alone  ? " 

Grey  vaguely  recalled  it;  Glenn  had  repeated  it  to 
him  and  Arnold,  after  the  excitement  of  Arnold's 
accident  was  past. 

"  Yes  I  remember  it.  Some  one  fell;  you  thought 
it  was  I,  but  it  wasn't." 

"Yes.  Well,  Mac,  I  told  you  that  I  should  never 
forget  the  face  that  I  saw  in  my  dream.  You  and 
Dad  laughed  at  me,  but  to-night  when  I  was  standing 
by  the  fire  in  the  living  room,  that  man  came  in! 
Mac,  he  has  the  face  of  the  man  in  my  dream!" 

"Good  Lord!  girl,  what  are  you  talking  about?" 
Grey  was  amused.  "I'll  tell  you  what  is  the  matter 
with  you:  nerves!  Now  do  not  give  way  to  them. 
Once  you  do,  you're  a  'goner.'  Come;  let  us  go  over 
and  take  a  second  look  at  this  stranger." 

"Don't  laugh  at  me,  Mac.  I  know  how  silly  I 
must  seem  to  be,  but — really — he  does  look  like  the 
man  of  my  dream." 

"Perhaps  he  looked  as  if  he  remembered  you;  did 
he,  Glenn?" 

"Mac— honestly— he  did!" 

"Glenn;  you're  good  'copy'  if  you  are  nothing 
else,"  Grey  smiled  into  the  serious  eyes. 

"All  the  same  I'm  not  going  back  until  after  Dad 
and  that  man  are  through  supper.  I  cooked  it — and 


ran." 


"All  the  better  for  me!  Sit  down,  child,  and  I'll 
get  something  for  you  to  eat.  In  the  meantime  let 
us  talk  this  thing  over.  What  sort  of  a  chap  is  the 
stranger?  Has  he  come  to  stay?" 

"I  heard  him  tell  Dad  that  he'd  come  on  bus- 


UNBROKEN  LINES  129 

iness.  Funny,  isn't  it? — business!  He's  good- 
looking  enough.  He  looks — well,  he  looks  as  if  he 
had  come  for  something!" 

"Glenn;  don't  get  a  kink  in  your  mind  about  a 
perfectly  innocent  tourist.  Just  give  him  the  benefit 
of  the  doubt.  He  may  not  be  the  dreaming  sort, 
but  if  he  did  have  a  tumble,  in  a  dream,  the  chances 
are  that  it  stunned  him.  Child;  speak  low,  tread 
easy,  let's  keep  him  stunned!" 

The  spell  was  broken.  Glenn  flung  her  arms  over 
her  head.  "I  tell  you,  Mac,"  she  said,  gaily,  "you 
bring  me  around  in  great  shape.  I  suppose  I  am  a 
bit  of  a — a  dub." 

After  eating  the  meal  that  Grey  had  prepared, 
Glenn — quite  recovered  from  her  unaccountable 
shock — stole  away  to  the  Lodge,  but  Grey  decided 
not  to  go  over  until  morning.  He  was  not  interested 
in  the  stranger  and,  although  he  was  no  longer  tired, 
he  wanted  to  be  alone.  He  stretched  his  legs  to  his 
fire;  clasped  his  hands  behind  his  head,  and  was 
not  conscious  of  any  connected  thought.  He  felt 
that  the  air  was  growing  chilly — the  door  behind 
him  was  open;  he  kicked  a  log  into  the  embers  and 
then  drifted  again  luxuriously. 

"Mac!" 

The  voice  that  spoke  his  name  had  a  carrying 
quality.  It  was  not  a  loud  voice,  it  had  all  the  quiet 
intonations  of  cultivation,  but  it  also  had  its  relent 
less  power  and  determination.  It  seemed  to  bear, 
in  its  quiet  demanding,  all  of  Grey's  past;  it  signified 
that  it  meant  to  hail  him  back  to  take  up  what  he  had 
dropped.  It  meant  to  imply:  "It  is  no  use  to  try  to 
escape!" 


130  UNBROKEN  LINES 

Slowly  Grey  turned,  then  got  upon  feet. 

"Hello,  Dick!"  was  all  that  he  said,  but  he  looked 
the  rest.  Then,  after  a  moment  of  reconstruction: 
"Sit  down  and — and  give  an  account  of  yourself. 
How  in  thunder  did  you  get  here  ?  Are  you  alone  ?" 

Grey  would  not  have  been  surprised  if  the  man, 
now  comfortably  seated  in  a  chair,  had  informed  him 
that  he  was  accompanied  by  all  the  company  that  had 
been  thrown  overboard  when  he  had  fled  his  past. 

"Yes,  I'm  alone.  Why  should  I  have  to  account 
for  being  here,  old  man  ?  When  you  crept  into  your 
hole  you  didn't  pull  it  in  after  you,  did  you?" 

"Lord,  no.     And  it  isn't  my  hole." 

Grey's  eyes  were  fastened  on  Richard  Carrington's 
face;  he  was  slowly  recovering  from  the  shock  of  see 
ing  him,  and  details  were  coming  into  prominence.  It 
must  have  been  Carrington's  face  that  had  given  poor 
Glenn  her  bad  half-hour.  His  face  was — The  Face! 

At  this  Grey  was  tempted  to  laugh,  but  sup 
pressed  it.  He  continued  to  stare,  however,  while 
Carrington  was  glibly  accounting  for  himself.  Grey 
barely  heard  a  word  but  the  "face"  was  taking  on 
importance.  It  was  a  face  of  Family  and  of  Money. 
Not  that  the  Carringtons  had  ever  handled  much 
money — others  did  that  for  them — they  themselves 
received  money  value,  and  it  had  set  its  mark  upon 
the  Face. 

It  was  not  the  sort  of  face,  Grey  was  thinking  rather 
humorously,  that  could  be  kept  dead.  When  you 
might  least  expect  it  the  eyes  and  lips  would  open 
and  warn  you  not  to  presume ! 

"And  so  you  see,"  Carrington  came  to  a  climax, 
"I  am  combining  business  and  pleasure."  He  took 


UNBROKEN  LINES  131 

a  cigarette  from  a  valuable  gold  case.  Like  his  face 
and  his  ease  of  manner,  it  was  an  heirloom.  "Got 
a  bit  rummy,  you  know.  Another  strike  at  the 
factories.  I  always  leave  them  to  Thompson.  When 
I'm  around  he  feels  it  his  duty  to  consult  me.  If 
Thompson  weren't  such  a  master  when  I'm  out  of 
sight,  I'd  get  rid  of  him  for  that  habit  he  has  of — of 
pestering.  Once  I'm  off  the  map,  however,  he  rolls 
up  his  sleeves  and  grits  his  teeth.  I  was  going 
abroad,  but  something  occurred  that — that  turned 
me  this  way." 

"Beverly  Train  all  right?"  asked  Grey.  It  struck 
even  him  as  odd  that  Beverly  should  be  the  only  one 
who  seemed  to  matter,  for  his  life  had  been  lived 
down  in  the  place  from  which  Carrington  had  come. 

"She's  the  same  as  usual.  Night-blooming  flower 
and  all  the  rest.  She  sent  for  me  a  week  ago.  She" — 
Carrington,  having  smoked  his  cigarette  to  the  exact 
point  where  he  always  discarded  a  cigarette,  lighted 
another — "she  wanted  some  one  who  knew  you, 
old  man,  to  tell  you  that — that  Kathleen  Maurey  is 
dead!" 

The  room  seemed  to  grow  cold.  The  fire  did  not 
penetrate  the  chill;  and  yet  it  flared  brightly,  vividly. 
It  leaped  and  made  the  place  light — the  cold  place 
where  ghosts  walk !  Grey  got  up  and  closed  the  door. 

"Dead?"  he  said,  simply,  as  he  took  his  seat  again. 
"Tell  me  all  about  it,  Dick.  I  suppose  Beverly  had 
the  details?" 

"Yes.  I  believe  she  has  confided  them  to  you. 
Here  is  the  letter.  I  do  not  know  the  contents." 

"The  letter?"  Repetition  seemed  necessary  in 
order  to  convince  him. 


132  UNBROKEN  LINES 

"Here  it  is."  Carrington  held  it  out.  "Beverly 
told  me  the  bare  fact — of  the  death/' 

Grey  took  the  envelope,  opened  it,  leaned  toward 
the  firelight  and  read,  silently: 

BEVERLY,  DEAR: 

You  always  held  to  something  in  me  that  you  thought  was  big. 
I  never  believed  there  was  anything  big  in  me — anything  really 
worth  while — but  the  year,  alone  off  here,  has  let  something 
within  me,  grow.  I  guess  it  is  the  thing  that  only  you  saw. 

I've  been  terribly  lonely,  Beverly — and  ill.  All  my  good 
looks  are  gone;  everything  is  gone  for  which  I  cared.  I  know 
this,  and  all  that  is  left  for  me  to  do — is  the  thing  that  I'm  going 
to  do! 

I  want  you  to  tell  Mac,  some  day,  all  about  this  letter.  After 
he  knows,  his  life  will  be  safe;  and  he  will  understand  that  (in 
the  only  way  possible  for  me)  I  helped  to  make  it  so.  I  wish 
that  I  had  never  caused  him  so  much  trouble. 

Isn't  it  strange,  Beverly,  that  a  very  bad  woman  can  some 
times  be  good  and  a  poor  little  fool  like  me  can  do,  at  the  pinch, 
a  rather  fine  thing? 

I've  been  suffering  with  neuritis.  The  doctor  has  given  me 
some  sleeping  medicine.  At  first  he  would  only  trust  me  with  a 
little,  but  a  week  ago  he  went  away,  leaving  a  dozen  powders 
with  me:  enough  to  last  until  he  came  home!  To-night,  Beverly, 
I  am  going — to  sleep!  They  will  call  it  something  else,  but  I 
wanted  you  to  know  the  truth.  It  has  helped  me  to  feel  that — 
you  will  understand.  It  will  square  me  with  my  conscience. 

Pasted  to  the  letter  was  a  short  notice  from  a 
Canadian  newspaper. 

Suddenly,  on  the  loth  of  May,  at  the  St.  Mark  Hotel,  Kath 
leen  Maurey,  late  of  Boston,  Mass. 

It  was  like  Beverly  Train,  Grey  thought,  to  put  the 
whole  secret  in  his  keeping  at  once.  Now  that  he 
was  free  she  felt  that  poor  Kathleen  should  have  the 


UNBROKEN  LINES  133 

glimmer  of  glory  that  belonged  to  her.  Slowly  Grey 
crumpled  the  sheets  of  paper  in  his  hand — a  faint 
fragrance  came  from  them.  He  knew  the  odour,  it 
had  a  sickening  effect  upon  him  now,  and  he  tossed 
the  paper  to  the  purifying  flames. 

"So  that's  ended,"  Carrington  said,  watching 
Grey's  face. 

"Yes.     That's  ended,  Dick." 

"After  all — it  was  the  best  thing  that  could  have 
happened.  I  must  say  I  did  not  expect  such  a  sane 
outcome.  I  was  afraid,  old  man — excuse  me,  but  I 
was  afraid  you'd  be  an  ass  and  let  her  get  a  strangle 
hold  on  you." 

"Were  you?"  Grey  did  not  smile.  "I'm  afraid 
you  flatter  me,  Dick.  There  have  been  times  when 
I  was  afraid  I  wasn't  going  to  be — an  ass." 

Carrington  was  not  sensitive  to  subtleties;  he  was 
keener  along  more  obvious  lines. 

"It  was  a  devil  of  a  mess,  Mac,  but  because  a 
fellow  snarls  up  his  life  with  a  married  woman,  there's 
no  reason  why  he  should  continue  to  knot  it — once 
they  both  are  free.  It's  an  open  game  in  most  cases." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so — occasionally."  Grey  was  not 
paying  much  attention.  He  was  thinking  that  as 
soon  as  he  felt  steady — he  could  go  to  Arnold  and 
Glenn ! 

"I  don't  imagine,  old  man,  that  it  was  anything 
but — well,  the  usual — was  it?  You're  not  broken 
up,  are  you?"  Carrington  earnestly  believed  him 
self  sympathetic. 

"Dick — you  won't  mind  I'm  sure — I'm  devilish 
grateful  to  you  and  Beverly  for  dealing  so  gently 
with  me — but  there  are  some  things  that  one — such 


i34  UNBROKEN  LINES 

a  one  as  I,  at  any  rate— cannot  go  into.  Let's  agree 
to — to  shut  the  door  on  it  all,  old  man." 

"Right!  And  toss  the  key  on  the  scrap  heap." 
Carrington  was  relieved.  He  hated  complication — 
abhorred  "scenes."  The  two  men  sat  in  silence  for 
a  few  minutes  during  which  both  got  their  armour 
adjusted. 

"Queer,  isn't  it?"  mused  Carrington.  "I'm  not 
subject  to  fancies"  [he  wasn't!];  "my  life  has,  by 
inheritance,  been  rather  exempt  from  any  tempta 
tion  to  sidetrack  my  emotions  or  feelings.  The 
beaten  track  has  always  seemed  adventurous  enough 
for  me.  But  a  few  hours  ago  I  got  a  jog." 

"Yes?"     Grey  had  to  say  something. 

"When  I  went  into  the  Lodge,  a  girl  was  standing 
by  the  fire  looking,  for  all  the  world,  as  if — you  may 
laugh,  Mac,  but  as  if — she  were  waiting  for  me! 
Women  don't  usually  attract  me — at  least  not  until 
I  know  them  well — but  that  girl  fixed  herself;  and 
the  queer  thing  about  it  was  her — what  shall  I  call 
it? — her  familiarity!  I  suppose  she  looks  like  some 
one  I've  seen — known,  perhaps,  rather  well.  It 
will  come  to  me.  Does  she  resemble  any  one  you 
know  back  home?" 

"Lord,  no!"  Grey  set  his  jaw.  "That's  Ar 
nold's  daughter.  She  is  unlike  any  one  who  ever  got 
her  start — down  where  we  came  from." 

"Ah?"  Carrington,  raised  his  eyebrows.  That 
trick  was  an  inheritance;  it  seemed  to  imply  strange 
and  rather  reprehensible  things;  but  .he  made  no 
direct  charge.  Grey  felt  himself  flush  and  angrily 
resented  it. 

"I  think,"  Carrington  said,  presently,  "I  will  turn 


UNBROKEN  LINES  135 

in.  They've  put  me  up  in  great  shape  at  the  Lodge; 
bath  and  all  the  luxuries  of  home,  here  in  the  wilds. 
I've  heard  of  the  place  for  years — always  wanted  to 
come — and  here  I  am!  Arnold  suggested  that  you 
guide  me  to-morrow,  as  a  starter.  New  job  for  you, 
isn't  it  ?  Arnold  seems  quite  a  character.  I  can't  just 
account  for  him  at  the  beginning;  he  and  the  girl  do 
not  quite  agree  with  one's  expectations  of  their  kind." 

"All  right,  Dick!"  Grey  had  a  mental  yearning 
to  kick  his  old  friend  from  his  cabin.  "We'll  go 
for  a  climb  to-morrow;  you  need  limbering.  We'll 
take  the  Giant's  Tooth  first,  I've  never  been  up  that 
and  it's  a  comparatively  easy  climb." 

"Beastly  name.  Sounds  ugly."  Carrington  was 
at  the^door. 

"I  rather  like  it.  Good  night,  old  man.  Hope 
you'll  sleep  well." 

"I  always  do,  Mac.  I've  made  it  a  point  to  drop 
my  sleep-slayers  with  my  clothes.  And  you?" 

"  Sometimes  I  Asleep  in  my  clothes.  It's  rather  an 
experience,  now  and  then.  Saves  trouble  in  the 
morning." 

"Lord,  Mac!  Don't.  You  might — revert.  You 
know  they  say  you  can  revert  in  a  devilishly  quick 
time.  I  saw  the  figures  once — they  staggered  one 
who  likes  to  believe  that  a  long  line  counts." 

He  was  gone  at  last!  Grey  opened  the  windows 
and  drew  a  long  breath.  He  was  free;  he  would  be 
able  to  take  a  clean  love  to  Glenn.  He  could  tell 
his  story:  his  strange  story.  They  would  believe 
and  understand.  But  he  would  wait  until  Carring 
ton — went. 


CHAPTER  XI 

GREY  and  Carrington  took  a  day  for  the 
Giant's  Tooth.  They  started  before  Glenn 
was  astir  and  did  not  get  back  until  late. 
Grey  kept  Carrington  for  supper  and  the  two  men 
spent  the  evening  going  over  the  experiences  of  their 
early  friendship.  This  seemed  to  draw  them  to 
gether  and  spanned  the  uneasy  hours  of  their  first 
meeting.  Eliminating  all  that  was  of  real  heart  in 
terest,  they  found  much  in  common. 

Carrington  was  a  world  traveller.  While  having 
his  roots  well  planted  in  his  home  state  of  Massa 
chusetts,  he  had  always  been  able  to  cling,  tena 
ciously,  to  other  places,  especially  those  at  a  distance. 

There  were  certain  French  and  some  English  spots 
for  which  he  held  a  sincere  liking. 

"Some  day,"  he  confided  to  Grey.  "I'm  going  to 
marry."  He  said  this  in  the  tone  of  a  man  who 
contemplated  adding  to  a  choice  collection.  "I'm 
twenty-seven  and  of  course  mean  to  do  my  duty,  in 
due  time.  I  have  always  kept  it  in  mind;  always, 
in  a  way,  made  ready  for  it.  I  haven't  wasted  my 
self — and  I  have  my  ideals.  Under  Thompson  the 
business  has  boomed." 

"I  should  think,"  interposed  Grey,  "that  you 
would  want  the  factories  to  bear  your  name,  now 
that  your  father  is  dead.  He  had  a  sentimental  idea 
about  keeping  them  in  your  mother's  name  while  she 

136 


UNBROKEN  LINES  137 

lived.  I've  heard  him  say  that;  but  he  always 
wanted  you  to  have  the  credit  of  any  success  you 
managed  to  bring  about,  and  you  certainly  have 
made  them  rear  their  heads." 

"Thompson  has."  Carrington  had  a  strange 
humility  about  his  business  relations.  "Besides, 
I  like  to  keep  the  old  name.  Hale  Mills  has  a  signi 
ficance  that  Carrington  Mills  would  take  long  in 
acquiring.  And  then " 

"It's  convenient  when  one  wants  to  travel  in 
cognito?"  suggested  Grey. 

"Exactly."  Carrington  puffed  luxuriously  at  his 
cigarette.  "After  all,  to  a  certain  extent  one's  busi 
ness  is  a  private  affair.  Providing  that  you  respect 
the  rights  of  others,  you  may  exact  the  same  courtesy 
from  them." 

"Yes;  that's  true.  I  was  only  thinking" — Grey 
spoke  detachedly — "that  it's  a  temptation,  these  days, 
to  express  yourself  in  your — well,  your  job.  Pass 
it  on  with  your  own  mark  on  it;  challenge  the  world, 
so  to  speak,  with  your  own  conception  of  the  game." 

Carrington  laughed  outright. 

"That's  all  well  enough  with  such  one-horse  jobs  as 
yours,  Mac,"  he  said,  indulgently;  "when  you  put  out 
an  expression  you've  got  to  father  it;  it's  no  matter  of 
choice.  With  my  complex  machine  it's  another 
matter.  It's  like  an  engine  that  has  been  built, 
little  by  little.  Every  man  has  had  his  turn  at  im 
provements,  or  new  inventions.  It's  my  part,  as 
things  are  now,  to  choose  my  experts.  Thompson 
is  my  master  expert;  he,  in  turn,  does  likewise  down 
to  the  lowest  cog  in  the  wheels  that  go  round  and 
round " 


I38  UNBROKEN  LINES 

"And  grind  out  the  gold!" 

"Exactly.  Grind  out  the  gold.  And  then  I 
come  in  again  and  see  that  the  gold  circulates." 
Carrington  looked  his  content. 

"And  doesn't  get  tarnished,"  added  Grey,  stretch 
ing  himself  and  yawning  complacently.  "It  tarn 
ishes  so  devilishly  easy." 

But  Carrington  frowned.  He  was  sensitive  to  dis 
approval.  He  could  not  see  how  it  was  possible  for 
Grey  to  disapprove  of  him,  or  his  well-run  and  well- 
paying  machine.  He  thought  for  a  moment  and 
then  good-naturedly  said: 

"You  writing  folk  are  the  very  deuce  where  money 
is  concerned.  There  ought  to  be  a  National  Com 
mittee  to  look  after  you.  Fellows  like  you  should 
pool  your  money;  the  Government  should  add  more, 
and  every  one  of  you — good,  bad,  and  indifferent — 
should  be  looked  after!" 

"By  a  Thompson,  I  suppose?"  Grey  was  more 
alert. 

"Well,  by  good  business  heads,  at  any  rate."  Car 
rington  was  wholly  at  ease  again. 

Then  Grey  arose  and,  with  the  most  charming 
grace,  said:  "You  don't  mind  if  I  turn  in,  do  you 
Dick?  Fm  off  to-morrow  with  Arnold  and  I  need 
to  be  fresh.  It  means  something  to  compete  with 
him.  If  you  like  this  fire  better  than  the  one  at  the 
Lodge,  stay  on." 

Then  Grey  disappeared  into  the  bedroom  and 
Carrington,  without  the  least  resentment,  sat  for  an 
hour  longer,  musing  alone.  Then  he  started,  con 
tentedly,  for  the  Lodge. 

The  next  morning  Polly  came,  to  stay  for  as  long 


UNBROKEN  LINES  139 

as  Arnold  and  Grey  should  be  absent.  They  might 
be  gone  longer  than  they  had  planned,  for  this  was  a 
business  trip  to  a  distant  cattle  ranch.  Polly  was  a 
transformed  woman.  She  wore  the  clothing  that 
Beverly  Train  had  sent,  with  due  regard  to  the  de 
tails  of  hairdressing  and  general  neatness  that  Bev 
erly,  tactfully,  had  introduced  into  the  directions. 
Sam  often  sat  gazing  at  his  wife  in  deep  perplexity; 
he  looked  as  a  man  might  who  had  won,  unexpect 
edly,  at  a  lottery. 

Carrington,  watching  his  host  and  Grey  depart, 
had  a  twinge  of  envy. 

"Practise  up,"  Arnold  suggested  to  him;  "get 
ready  for  a  man-sized  climb.  You  mustn't  expect 
to  eat  your  muscles  at  the  first  meal." 

Carrington  decided  to  avail  himself  of  this  advice. 
He  had  come  equipped  with  all  the  latest  parapher 
nalia  for  mountain  life,  and  he  meant  to  get  some 
results  for  the  money  expended. 

Glenn  startled  him,  the  day  after  Arnold's  de 
parture,  by  proposing  to  be  his  guide  on  his  trial 
trips. 

Now  the  idea  of  spending  hours  alone,  with  any  fem 
inine  thing,  in  desolate  mountain  trails  gave  Carring 
ton  a  singular  sense  of  alarm.  In  his  clean,  well- 
regulated  life,  he  acquiesced  in  all  the  code  of  his 
world,  while  not  availing  himself  of  its  favours.  He 
had  recognized  only  two  kinds  of  women,  formerly: 
the  kind  that  he  approved — his  mother  was  of  that 
type — and  the  kind  he  did  not  approve.  Carrington 
was  not  interested  in  shades  or  degrees.  What  he 
did  not  approve,  he  eliminated. 

Glenn,  however,  could  not  be  disregarded,  and, 


i4o  UNBROKEN  LINES 

in  his  effort  to  classify  her,  Carrington  was  becoming 
interested — in  spite  of  himself.  The  girl  flouted 
all  his  preconceived  conclusions.  Her  intelligence 
and  beauty  aroused  him;  her  perfect  poise  and  free 
dom  defied  his  conceptions  of  the  proprieties  while 
they  still  commanded  his  respect.  He  was  afraid 
to  appear  doubtful  as  to  his  relations  with  her,  yet, 
at  the  same  time,  he  was  utterly  at  sea. 

Such  a  condition  of  mind  had  been  unknown  in 
Carrington's  orderly  past,  but  it  gave  a  zest  to  life, 
which  he  attributed  to  altitude. 

After  Arnold  and  Grey  had  departed,  the  Lodge — 
with  the  two  women — caused  Carrington  a  bad  half 
hour.  He  viewed  the  situation  as  a  personal  affront. 
He  could  hardly  be  expected  to  roam  at  large,  alone; 
nor  could  he  agree  to  the  alternative,  namely  to  re 
main  close  to  the  house  and  mope;  so,  with  a  stirring 
of  the  senses,  he  decided  to  accept  Glenn  as  a  guide 
and — see  what  happened. 

Several  things  happened — happened  so  rapidly 
that  they  left  no  time  for  meditation. 

In  the  first  place,  quite  innocently,  Glenn  revealed 
her  innermost  and  hidden  nature  to  this  stranger 
whose  vaguely  familiar  face  gave  impetus  to  her 
imagination.  She  could  not  free  herself  of  the  im 
pression  that  he  held  some  relationship  to  her  which, 
while  not  understandable,  was,  none  the  less,  real. 
She  expanded  before  Carrington  with  a  fearless  sweet 
ness  that  appealed  to  the  best  that  was  in  him.  She 
took  for  granted  so  much  that  was  utterly  foreign 
to  the  man,  that  he  strove  to  keep  up  the  delusion. 
All  the  solidly  packed  information  that  Glenn  had 


UNBROKEN  LINES  '141 

once  acquired  from  her  unappreciated  tutor,  stood 
her  in  good  stead  now.  Carrington  was  amazed  at 
the  scope  and  quality  of  the  well-trained  mind.  He 
could  hardly  mention  a  subject — and  he  mentioned 
a  great  many — that  Glenn  did  not  know  something 
about  or  in  which  she  did  not  show  an  intelligent 
interest.  She  was  so  sincere  and  eager  that  her  ques 
tions  were  often  the  most  subtle  flattery  to  Carring- 
ton's  pride. 

Again,  too,  her  charming  disregard  of  sex  appeal — 
for  she  frankly  wore  her  trousers  and  shirt — made  a 
peculiar  impression  upon  her  companion.  It  aroused 
— or,  perhaps,  created — an  imagination  that  shook 
him  from  his  moorings  and  left  him  dangerously  free 
to  find  new  ones. 

There  is  given  to  everyone,  at  least  once  in  a  life 
time,  an  opportunity  to  be  something  other  than 
his  enemies  and  friends  expect.  Carrington's  hour 
had  struck.  As  his  flabby  muscles  began  to  stiffen, 
his  newly  recognized  imagination  became  a  trickster, 
luring  and  deluding  its  captive,  who  was  soon  in 
chains  and  clanking  them  merrily. 

Glenn  could  not  possibly  know  the  grim  humour  of 
the  situation.  She  saw  in  the  handsome  fellow, 
gaily  filling  her  days,  a  most  charming  and  inspiring 
comrade.  June  throbbed  with  beauty  and,  while 
Arnold  and  Grey  roamed  afar,  Carrington,  for  the 
first  and  only  time  in  his  life,  became  a  simple  and 
primal  creature.  Those  days  were,  perhaps,  the 
only  really  happy  ones  he  had  ever  known.  He  felt 
the  thrill  that  Pygmalion  knew — the  power  that  the 
creator  of  Frankenstein  experienced — for  he  hon 
estly  believed  that  he  had  discovered  the  real  Glenn 


H2  UNBROKEN  LINES 

Arnold  and  that  he  had  it  within  his  power  to  breathe 
the  breath  of  life  into  her. 

Having  got  thus  far;  his  mental  vision  was 
blinded  by  a  force  that  was  controlling  him;  he  ap 
propriated  the  girl,  in  a  high  spiritual  sense.  While 
feeling  a  bit  dizzy  at  the  prospect  of  the  breath-giv 
ing,  he  also  had  twinges  of  doubt  that  added  fervour 
to  his  dreams  of  conquest.  Simple  as  he  believed 
Glenn  to  be,  he  nevertheless  detected  a  defensive  at 
titude  at  times.  As  he  advanced,  she  withdrew. 
Her  laugh,  and  that  maddening  trick  of  her  eyelid, 
held  him  at  bay.  The  girl  was  a  goddess — simple 
and  primitive,  undoubtedly,  but  a  goddess! 

At  this  point  Carrington  began  to  put  forth  argu 
ments  to  his  old  ideals.  "Here  is  a  new  element" 
he  reflected,  "that  might,  if  introduced  into  the 
Carrington  line,  bring  forth  bewildering  results! 
A  being  fresh  from  the  hand  of  its  Maker" — Carring 
ton  was  losing  his  head —  "ready  for  life!  Here  was 
he,  Carrington,  with  all  the  power  to  form  and  guide 
this  divine  and  clear  nature;  make  of  it  a  fine  and  a 
finished  thing!  It  had  all  the  possibilities  of  in 
telligence,  charm,  and  adaptability;  he  had  family, 
fortune,  taste,  and  leisure.  Other  men  of  his  class 
had  tried  the  experiment;  why  not  he?  Some  had 
failed,  he  would  succeed." 

Carrington  tested  his  power. 

On  the  third  day  he  prostrated  himself  before 
the  imagination  of  the  girl;  he  let  her  see  the  influence 
she  was  exerting  over  him — this  was  most  dangerous 
to  such  a  nature  as  Glenn's — he  anticipated  her  every 
wish  and  thought.  To  one  who  had  never  felt  the 
need  of  protection— had  always  been  sufficient  unto 


UNBROKEN  LINES  143 

herself — the  sudden  realization  that  she  was  an  ob 
ject  of  intense  concern  to  another,  was  little  less  than 
overpowering.  Suddenly  it  was  Carrington  who  was 
helping  Glenn  to  climb,  or  steadying  her  across 
streams  and  swaying  logs.  The  warm,  firm  clasp 
of  his  hand  made  her  tremble;  she  developed  weak 
ness  to  tempt  his  strength. 

By  the  fourth  day  Glenn  was  a  Woman  to  com 
plement  his  Man!  In  the  lonely,  divinely  beautiful 
spaces,  no  disturbing  thought  entered  to  caution  or 
warn.  It  had  evidently  been  foreordained  that  Car 
rington,  should  know,  in  the  time  vouchsafed  him  on 
earth,  an  hour  of  madness!  And  so  madly  he  fell  in 
love  with  his  idea  of  Glenn  Arnold ! 

By  the  fifth  day  he  had  so  completely  succumbed 
to  his  master  passion,  that  he  drew  forth  from  the 
girl  what  Grey  had  so  unconsciously  chilled;  the  grop 
ing  instinct  of  the  woman,  not  for  its  mate,  but  its 
interpreter.  All  Glenn's  nature  bent  to  the  spell  that 
held  it.  Her  eyes  became  tender  and  submissive; 
her  mouth,  pathetic  in  its  wistful  sweetness. 

Carrington  was  deeply  moved.  He  felt  that  he 
held  a  sacred  trust  in  his  keeping;  which,  indeed,  he 
did,  and  he  never  doubted  his  ability  to  carry  out, 
in  the  girl  near  him,  the  work  so  well  begun  by  her 
Maker.  Of  course  Carrington  did  not  think,  or  rea 
son,  in  this  fashion.  He  merely  surrendered  and — 
proceeded! 

Now,  even  at  such  a  critical  moment,  all  might  have 
happened  differently  had  Arnold  and  Grey  returned, 
or  had  Fate  been  less  dramatic,  but,  on  that  fifth  day, 
Glenn  decreed  that  they  should  climb  the  Twins. 

"I  am  going,"  she  said — looking  her  most  tempting 


144  UNBROKEN  LINES 

self — "to  show  you  my  own,  secret  trail.  I  found  it 
when  I  was  quite  young;  I  haven't  even  told  Daddy 
about  it.  He  was  with  me  when  I  first  came  upon  it, 
but  I  ran  away  from  him  and  came  in  sight  again  only 
when  I  had  reached  the  top." 

Carrington  held  Glenn  by  the  look  in  his  eyes. 
"Are  you  going  to  run  away  from  me?" 

"No."     Glenn  dropped  her  eyes. 

"I  should  find  you  wherever  you  went,"  declared 
Carrington;  "I'm  made  that  way — when  things  are 
worth  while."  And  Carrington  never  felt  more  sin 
cere  in  his  life;  therein  lay  the  danger — to  them  both. 

Polly  watched  the  two  depart.  She  shook  her 
head.  How  she  wished  that  Arnold  and  Grey  were 
back!  Polly  was  strangely  full  of  misgivings;  she 
felt  aged  beside  the  girl  who  had  once  settled  her 
affairs  for  her  in  such  a  masterful  way.  "I  don't 
just  know  what's  edging  me  up,"  thought  Polly;  "but 
I  am  edged." 

Still  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  watch  Carrington 
and  Glenn  pass  from  sight,  laughing  and  talking 
gaily.  "It's  like  he  was  two  men,"  muttered  Polly, 
turning  to  her  work;  "two  men,  walking  along  there 
by  Glenn,  and  her  not  sensing  it." 

Glenn,  however,  was  conscious  of  but  one  person 
ality  that  day.  Carrington  rose  to  every  call  of  her 
nature.  He  was  tender  and  strong;  he  was  humble 
and  watchful.  He  made  her  feel  that  she  was  some 
thing  precious  and  desirable — she,  who  had  never 
taken  herself  largely  into  consideration ! 

They  reached  the  Twins  at  high  noon,  made  their 
camp  fire,  and  ate  their  feast. 


UNBROKEN  LINES  145 

Carrington  was  so  far  gone  in  his  madness  by  this 
time  that  he  had  but  to  close  his  eyes  to  visualize  the 
girl  in  every  phase  of  a  woman's  relations  with  a 
man.  Having  spiritually  appropriated  her,  he  viewed 
her  progress  along  the  course  of  her  remaking  until, 
bursting  forth  as  a  bright  achievement,  she  at  last 
reigned  where  the  women  of  the  Carringtons  had  al 
ways  reigned — in  a  place  prepared  for  them  by  the 
honour  of  their  men !  Carrington,  to  do  him  justice, 
was  silently  offering  the  unsuspecting  girl  the  best,  the 
highest,  that  he  had. 

At  two  o'clock  they  were  on  Glenn's  secret  trail. 

"You  see,  sometimes  I  come  here  when  no  one 
knows,"  she  explained.  She  was  going  ahead,  lightly 
tripping  from  rock  to  rock,  edging  her  slim  body 
through  crevices  and  laughing  to  see  Carrington 
estimate  his  chances  in  following  her.  "You  have 
done  wonders  since  Dad  went  away;  and  only  five 
days,  too!"  she  flung  back,  gaily. 

"Five  days?" — Carrington  was  breathing  a  bit 
more  quickly — "Five  eternities,  you  mean." 

"As — bad  as  that?"     Glenn's  lip  trembled. 

"As  wonderful  as  that." 

For  a  while  they  went  on,  silently.  Then  Glenn, 
approaching  Carrington,  said: 

"And  now — I'm  not  going  to  run  away,  really — 
but  I  want  you  to  close  your  eyes.  So!"  She 
showed  him,  standing  with  her  face  to  a  rocky  wall. 
"You  must  promise  not  to  peep;  I'm  going  to — to 
surprise  you." 

"I  promise.     Don't  be  long!" 

It  struck  him,  even  in  his  new  state  of  mind,  that 
his  present  position,  standing  like  a  little  boy  with 


i46  UNBROKEN  LINES 

closed  eyes,  was  humorous  to  the  last  degree,  but  he 
revelled  in  the  humour. 

Presently  he  heard  Glenn  call.  He  turned  and 
looked  up.  She  stood  where  once  she  had  stood  be 
fore  the  horrified  eyes  of  her  father!  She  seemed 
poised  between  heaven  and  earth.  The  narrow  strip 
of  rock  upon  which  she  balanced  did  not  look  strong 
enough  to  bear  even  her  slight  weight.  She  was 
laughing,  too,  and  waving  her  outstretched  arms. 

"Good  God!"  groaned  Carrington.  And  in  that 
second  all  that  he  had  been  about  to  clutch  seemed 
escaping  him. 

And  then,  because  he  had  always  been  able  to 
command  what  he  desired,  he  shouted: 

"Come  down!" 

Glenn  again  laughed — the  sound  echoed  and  re 
echoed  in  the  sunny  place.  She  swung  one  foot  free 
and  actually  swayed  to  and  fro.  Carrington's  fierce 
passion  for  power  came  to  his  aid.  He  was  angry 
because  he  was  being  caused  suffering. 

"How  dare  you  take  such  chances?"  he  called. 
But  again  that  sweet,  mocking  laugh  rang  out  to  him 
defiantly. 

"What  will  you  give  me — to  come  down?"  Glenn 
demanded,  merrily. 

And  then  the  savage  rose — rose  with  his  club,  the 
club  that  Civilization  has  evolved.  It  is  the  first  and 
the  last  surrender  of  Caste. 

"All  that  I  possess.  Anything  you  want!"  And 
Carrington  stood  at  bay. 

"See!  I  will  dance  for  you.  What  will  you  give 
me  if  I  dance  for  you?"  The  savage  possessed  the 
girl,  too.  Now  that  she  felt  power,  she  bartered. 


UNBROKEN  LINES  147 

Carrington  closed  his  eyes.  He  was  dizzy  and 
faint.  He  bent  his  head  and — groaned.  He  dared 
not  look  again. 

And  then,  after  a  black  space  of  time,  he  felt  a 
touch  on  his  arm. 

"  Did  I — frighten  you  ?     Did  you  care — really  ? " 

At  that  the  savage  laid  down  his  club  and  resorted 
to  an  even  more  primitive  method  of  conquest.  The 
woman  was  in  his  arms!  Her  head  lay  back  and  her 
uplifted  face  was  still  and  lifeless.  She  was  the 
frightened  one  now! 

"Listen  to  me.  I  love  you;  love  you!  Do  you 
understand,  Glenn? — I  love  you!  That's  how  I  care. 
You  have  got  to  be  mine.  Do  you  hear  ? " 

Then  Carrington  kissed  the  quiet  face.  He  kissed 
the  brow,  the  eyes,  and  last,  the  mouth!  A  flicker 
like  candle  flame,  touched  the  girl's  features. 

"Kiss  me.  Kiss  me,  my  darling,"  entreated  Car 
rington. 

"I — I  don't  know  how."  The  words  came  on  a 
sigh.  Carrington  knew  that  she  spoke  the  truth, 
and  the  knowledge  added  to  his  madness. 

"See — I  will  teach  you.     Now!" 

"Is — this — love?"  The  words  came  faintly;  there 
were  tears  stealing  from  under  Glenn's  closed  lids. 

"It  is  love,  Glenn.  I've  never  known  it  before 
nor  have  you!;' 

"It  seems — as  if  I  had  known  it — always — some 
where  else!" 

Carrington  drew  her  close.  "I  think,  my  beloved, 
that  I  am  to  be  the  one  to — to  give  you — all  things ! " 

"All  things? — all  things?"  sighed  Glenn,  looking 
up.  Her  eyes  were  shining. 


148  UNBROKEN  LINES 

"Lie  still,  my  sweet.  Lie  still  until  I  get  used  to 
the  feeling  of  you  in  my  arms.  How  unutterably 
precious  you  are/' 

"It's  so  strange  and  wonderful!"  Glenn  clung 
now,  and  she  found  that  the  act  transformed  her. 
In  so  touching  Carrington  she  appropriated  him. 
"I  think  I  must  have  fallen  from  the  bridge,"  she 
went  on,  whimsically.  "I  think  I  must  have  died." 

"And  wakened  in  heaven?     Is  that  it,  my  own?" 

"I — I  don't  know.     Is  it  heaven?" 

"  Yes;  it  is  heaven,  sweet — your  heaven  and  mine. 
It  took  us — why,  darling,  it  took  us  just  five  little 
days — to  create  it.  Five  little,  mad,  bewildering 
clays." 

"We — we  couldn't  make  it  in  five  days!  It  must 
have  been  waiting  for  us;  we  just  found  it,"  whispered 
Glenn,  struggling  to  free  herself.  Reluctantly  Car 
rington  let  her  go. 

Never  before  in  all  his  life  had  he  held  a  woman 
in  his  arms,  excepting  his  mother.  And  yet,  now, 
how  empty  they  felt  without  the  small,  strange  crea 
ture  in  them. 

"I  think  I — I  want  to  go  home,"  Glenn  whispered; 
"I  wonder  whether  they  will  know  me — Father, 
Mac,  and  Polly  ?  Do  I  look  very  different  ? " 

"I — think  you  do,  child,"  answered  Carrington, 
regarding  her. 

"How?" 

"I— I  dare  not  tell  you!" 

"Why?" 

"Simply  because  I — I  love  you  so!" 

And  at  that  instant  Carrington  was  sincerely  rev 
erent. 


UNBROKEN  LINES  149 

When  they  reached  the  Lodge  they  found  that 
Arnold  and  Grey  had  returned.  The  evening  meal 
was  waiting  and  the  common  things  of  life  safely 
shielded  the  miracle  that  had  been  performed  on  the 
mountain. 

After  the  meal  was  finished  Glenn  stole  away. 
Grey  had  not  come  to  supper.  It  was  a  puzzling 
thing  to  Arnold — this  growing  habit  of  Grey's  to  keep 
to  his  own  quarters  while  his  friend  was  at  the  Lodge. 
But  Arnold  was  not  one  to  pry;  he  concluded  that  the 
two  younger  men  knew  what  they  were  about.  They 
probably  made  up  for  lost  time  when  they  were  alone. 
Certainly  their  attitude  toward  each  other  was  most 
cordial. 

Left  with  Carrington,  Arnold  filled  his  pipe,  tilted 
back  the  chair — the  two  were  on  the  western  porch — 
and  fell  into  that  perfectly  gracious  silence  that  so 
fully  explained  his  popularity. 

Carrington  was  less  at  ease.  He  was  trying  to 
formulate  some  method  of  approaching  Arnold  that 
would  not  so  startle  him  as  to  threaten  the  peace  of 
the  future.  In  the  calm  light  of  the  early  gloaming, 
to  burst  upon  Arnold  with  the  news  that,  after  a 
week's  acquaintance  with  his  very  simple  little 
daughter,  he,  Richard  Carrington,  was  madly  in  love 
with  her  and  intended  to  marry  her  at  once,  was 
hardly  to  be  contemplated.  And  yet,  what  other 
course  was  open  ? 

But  Carrington  did  not  know  his  man.  The  force 
that  had  controlled  Arnold  at  the  time  he  went  down 
to  Conner's  to  love  and  watch  a  young,  unknown 
girl — to  guard  her  from  the  worst  of  things  and  finally 
bring  her  back  to  the  Lodge — held  him  captive,  still. 


150  UNBROKEN  LINES 

No  matter  how  revolutionary  a  thing  might  be,  if 
truth  marked  it,  Arnold  accepted  it  and  dealt  with  it 
justly.  So  when,  presently,  Carrington  said : 

"Mr.  Arnold,  I  have  told  your  daughter  to-day 
that  I  love  her,"  Arnold  was  not  shocked — he  was 
merely  taken  off  guard.  He  dropped  his  pipe, 
brought  his  chair  to  the  level,  rescued  his  pipe,  and 
then  asked  that  the  remark  be  repeated.  Carring 
ton  complied  and  added: 

"This  may  seem  like  madness,  after  so  short  a 
time,  Mr.  Arnold;  but  it  is  a  fact." 

"Such  things  do  happen,"  Arnold  muttered;  "but 
they  always  knock  someone  out — at  the  start.  My 
girl — what  did  she  say?" 

"She — loves  me!"  Carrington  was  at  his  best. 
He  was  still  obsessed  by  the  memory  of  the  after 
noon. 

"I  suppose" — Arnold  was  trying  to  get  his  feet  on 
solid  ground — "I  suppose — like  death  and  some  other 
inevitable  things — this  sort  of  happening  never  seems 
possible  to  one's  self  or  his  nearest;  but  if  it  is  a  case 
of  my  girl's  happiness — I  can  get  out  of  sight  until 
I'm  used  to  the  idea.  Of  course  you'll  take  time  to 
get  acquainted  with  each  other."  Carrington  stiff 
ened  at  this  and  said: 

"I  am  prepared  to  give  you  all  the  data  you  de 
sire,  Mr.  Arnold.  Mac's  friendship  and  knowledge 
of  me  and  mine,  ought  to  go  a  good  way,  and  I  think 
I  do  know  your  daughter." 

"  But  you  cannot  expect "  Arnold  choked. 

"What?"  asked  Carrington. 

"That  I — I  can  give  her  up — suddenly,  like  this?" 

"Both  she  and  I,  sir,  have  been  swept  from  our 


UNBROKEN  LINES  151 

feet.  I  know  how  staggering  this  must  seem  to  you. 
I  can  assure  you  that  there  are  moments  when  I  can 
hardly  realize  it  myself.  I  think  if  you  could  believe 
that  she  fills  my  life — has  taken  possession  of  my 
every  thought  and  desire — it  would  not  seem  so — so 
hard  to  you — to  give  her  up.  I'm  about  the  last  man 
that  this  sort  of  thing  could  happen  to,  Arnold,  but 
it  has  happened!" 

Because  he  was  the  man  that  he  was,  Arnold 
travelled,  in  thought,  back  to  that  hour  of  his  life 
when,  with  Mary  Glenn  before  him  on  the  saddle, 
he  had  ridden  twenty  rough  and  perilous  miles  to  a 
minister.  At  that  time  it  would  have  been  danger 
ous  for  any  human  being  to  have  blocked  the  path! 

"The  girl's  like  me — and  her  mother!"  thought 
Arnold;  "what  right  have  I  to  hold  her  back?"  Then 
he  turned  frankly,  simply  to  Carrington: 

"I  don't  know  what  to  say,  Mr.  Carrington  ;?and, 
not  knowing,  I  leave  it  all  to  my  girl.  She  isn't  one 
to  stray  far." 

And  then  they  talked — man  to  man — talked  late 
into  the  night.  With  real  delicacy  Carrington  spread 
his  possessions  before  the  honest  gaze  of  Arnold. 
Meanwhile  the  heart  of  the  father  was  relinquishing 
— and  renouncing.  Although  he  had  always  told 
himself  that  this  day  would  come,  he  was  still  under 
the  influence  of  the  surprise  of  it  all,  but  he  was  trying 
to  feel  glad  that  Glenn  was  to  have  all  that  was  being 
enumerated — have  her  woman's  chance  at  life;  her 
Chance! 

"The  mountains  will  feel  mighty  queer  without  my 
girl,"  he  said,  finally,  even  while  Carrington  was  de 
picting  Glenn  in  her  niche  in  the  Carrington  Hall  of 


152  UNBROKEN  LINES 

Fame.  "She  must  come  back  every  year,  Carring- 
ton.  I'll  have  to  put  that  in  the  agreement." 

Carrington  felt  it  easy  to  comply. 

"I  hope  it's  to  be  a  long  wooing,  my  boy?  I 
reckon  Love  had  to  have  its  way,  but  there's  ground 
to  go  over — for  safety." 

"I  want  to  take  my  wife  with  me  when  I  go,  Mr. 
Arnold." 

"And  that  is?" 

Arnold  felt  the  blood  leaving  his  brain. 

"At  the  end  of  the  month." 

"At  the — end  of  the  month  ?  Why,  that  will  be — 
the  end  of  June,  Carrington!" 

Carrington  smiled.  "The  month  of  months, 
Arnold." 

"The  end  of  June!" 

The  words  sounded,  as  Arnold  uttered  them, 
like  a  dirge. 


CHAPTER  XII 

WHEN  Glenn  left  her  father  and  Carrington 
she  had  no  very  definite  end  in  view. 
She  wanted  companionship  one  minute; 
the  next  she  wanted  to  be  alone.  She  started  for 
Polly — she  had  a  sudden  feeling  of  kinship  for  Polly 
— but  before  she  reached  her  she  saw,  from  a  window, 
Grey  calling  his  dog  inside  the  cabin.  Then  she 
wanted  Grey.  He  had  annexed  a  dog  to  his  estab 
lishment,  and  somehow,  as  he  called  the  animal  in, 
he  looked  lonely;  looked  as  if  he,  too,  needed  com 
panionship. 

"I  wonder  why  he  keeps  so  to  himself?"  she 
thought,  then  a  smile  came.  A  slow,  sweet  smile, 
but  it  brought  a  tear  in  its  wake.  "Dear  old  Mac! 
but  of  course  he  won't  mind;  he  will  not  really  care! 
I'm  glad,  now,  that  he  will  not." 

Glenn  did  not  go  to  either  Grey  or  Polly.  She 
went  upstairs  to  her  small  room;  she  locked  the  door 
after  her!  She  sat  down  and  took  her  toys  from  the 
shelf  and  regarded  them  with  fond  but  renouncing 
eyes.  "Not  'Little  Girl  Glenn'  any  more,"  she 
whispered  to  a  doll  that  Arnold  had  evolved  from 
the  root  of  a  tree,  "but  some  day — when  I  am  quite, 
quite  old,  and  very  wise — I  will  bring  my — my 
children  here  to  play  with  you."  The  eyes  were 
misty — the  cheeks  flushed.  "It's  wonderful,  Susan 
Ann,"  she  went  on,  with  a  catch  in  her  voice;  very 

153 


154  UNBROKEN  LINES 

wonderful  how  we  just  play  on,  learning  while  we 
play;  and  then,  suddenly,  something  happens  and — 
and  we're  not  strangers  in  a  new  place  at  all!  Now 
Dad  and  my  mother  made  me  understand;  and  you, 
Susan  Ann,  you  taught  me  so  much.  And  then  a 
mighty  love  opens  my  eyes  and  my  soul  wide  and  I 
see  that  Love  means  men,  like  father.  And — and 
little  soft  babies  are  just  Susan  Anns,  with  life 
breathed  into  them;  and  I  am  like  my  mother — I 
am,  Susan  Ann,  I  am!  So  wait  very  patiently,  you 
dear  old  thing,  and  I  will  come  back." 

Grey  never  went  to  bed  early.  That  night  he  sat 
by  his  fireside,  his  dog  close  at  his  feet,  his  outer  door 
open,  as  usual,  to  the  starry  night  and  the  possible 
guest.  He  felt  ill-natured  and  inhospitable.  He 
realized  that  if  he  kept  on  as  he  was  going  he  would 
erect  a  barrier  between  his  cabin  and  the  Lodge.  Of 
course  his  detachment  appeared  strange  and  yet  he 
had  no  inclination  to  be  genial.  He  wanted  Car- 
rington  off  the  scene ! 

Many  emotions  swayed  him.  He  was  deeply 
depressed  by  the  news  of  Kathleen  Maurey's  desper 
ate  end.  His  conscience  was  clear,  for  he  knew 
himself  to  be  blameless,  but  he  had  yet  to  convince 
others  of  the  truth  of  this.  He  knew  his  world  fairly 
well.  A  year  or  two  and  he  might,  if  he  permitted 
it,  be  regarded  rather  sentimentally  on  account  of  his 
"romantic  past" — which,  actually,  had  no  reality. 
This  did  not  move  Grey  either  way — he  was  singu 
larly  indifferent  to  estimates  of  himself.  What  did 
hurt  and  bow  him  was  the  picture  that  his  imagina 
tion  drew  of  Kathleen's  last  lonely  days  and  nights. 
How  afraid  she  had  always  been  of  the  dark!  How 


UNBROKEN  LINES  155 

she  had  always  shrunk  from  death!  And  he  had 
wanted  her  to  do  her  big  best  and  yet  have  love  and 
life.  "It  was  a  big,  a  huge  thing  that  she  did — poor 
little  woman!"  Grey  repeated  to  himself.  "She  was 
big  enough  to  die;  but  I  doubt  if  she  ever  would  have 
been  big  enough  to  live — really  live." 

Then,  passionately,  Grey  wanted  to  talk  to  Beverly 
Train — wanted  it  so  that,  had  he  not  promised  to  re 
main  for  the  summer  at  the  Lodge,  he  would  have 
drifted  down  to  that  dim,  quiet  garden  in  the  eastern 
town  and  cast  his  troubles  among  the  many  already 
there.  After  that — he  would  be  free  to  love.  "Lord ! 
what  a  mind,  what  a  soul  Beverly  has!"  thought 
Grey;  "no  kink  in  them.  How  like  her  to  share  the 
truth  with  me,  knowing  that  the  wound  would  be  a 
clean  one  and  heal.  Yes,  it  will  heal,  without  much 
of  a  scar — after  a  while,  after  a  while.  I'm  glad  I 
told  Beverly  all." 

Then  Grey  considered  Carrington.  "Queer!" 
— he  thought  on  by  his  fireside — "queer,  how  a  fellow 
can  chum  with  another  for  years  without  getting 
under  the  skin.  Lord  Harry!  how  I'd  hate  to  get 
under  Dick's  skin.  It's  a  good  clean  skin,  too.  It's 
the  cleanness  that  I've  liked.  Nothing  smudgy  ever 
stuck  to  Dick;  he  kept  a  safe  distance.  I  wonder" 
— (here  Grey  almost  laughed  outright — ),  "I  wonder 
how  Dick  would  look  if  he  ever,  by  accident,  got  too 
near  Smudge — so  near  that  some  of  it  stuck?  I 
wonder  what  he  would  do  ? " 

This  easy  wandering  was  diverting;  it  led  to  other 
and  far-reaching  points.  Grey  soon  found  himself 
feeling  quite  safe  about  Glenn,  and  was  surprised 
that  he  should  feel  so!  "Why  she's  as  secure  with 


1 56  UNBROKEN  LINES 

Dick,"  he  reasoned,  "as  she  would  be  with  the  Monk 
— or  any  other  icy,  inaccessible  thing.  I  wonder 
whether  they  talk  much — she  and  Dick;  and  what 
do  they  talk  about?" 

Then  Grey  chuckled,  recalling  Carrington's  ca 
pacity,  when  he  chose,  of  talking  at  people.  He  had 
a  way  of  deluging  one  with  information  whether  they 
desired  it  or  not,  if  he  happened  to  be  in  a  talkative 
mood.  Perhaps  they  did  not  talk  much.  Dick 
could  be  silent  at  times,  and  Glenn  never  regarded 
conversation  as  essential  unless  it  meant  more  than 
talk;  she  was  like  Arnold  in  that.  "I  bet  Glenn 
doesn't  care  whether  he  speaks  or  not!"  mused  Grey. 
"And  I  wonder  how  Dick  regards  her  trousers?  By 
heaven!  I  must  get  into  closer  touch  with  him.  I, 
somehow,  have  got  so  used  to  the  trousers  that  I 
haven't  applied  them  to  Dick.  I  wager  they  made 
him  qualmish  for  a  minute  or  two." 

Grey  recalled  a  remark  of  Carrington's  and  it  had 
not  sounded  caddish,  either,  at  the  time.  He  had 
said:  "I  see  all  women  through  my  mother,  Mac." 

"Mrs.  Richard  Carrington,  Sr.  in  trousers,  would 
be  a  show!"  bethought — then  Grey  pulled  himself  up 
sharply;  the  picture  he  had  conjured  up  shamed  him. 

And  just  then  he  heard  steps  coming  up  the  path 
to  the  cabin.  "Come  in!"  he  called  before  the  steps 
reached  the  porch;  he  wanted  to  appear  more  cordial 
than  he  felt. 

Carrington  entered.  He  was  dressed  in  his  proper 
outfit,  designed  by  a  firm  that  stopped  short  of — well 
short  of  the  comic-opera  effect.  He  was  slightly 
grimy  and  rufHed.  One's  clothes  were  likely  to  be, 
after  a  day  with  Glenn  on  a  real  trail. 


UNBROKEN  LINES  157 

The  general  effect  left  upon  Carrington's  face  by 
his  late  conversation  with  Arnold  was  confusing;  he 
had  a  bewildered  expression  but  an  uplifted  one, 
at  the  same  time,  He  felt  as  he  might  have  done  had 
he  been  talking,  for  an  hour  or  more,  in  a  language 
of  which  he  knew  but  an  occasional  word,  and  none 
of  the  local  phrases. 

"Sit  down,  Dick;  you're  not  very  friendly."  This 
being  hardly  fair,  Grey  added:  "at  least  we  haven't 
seen  as  much  of  each  other  as  we  should  have;  we 
must  get  on  the  hills  together,  to-morrow."  Then, 
rather  interestedly:  "When  do  you  think  of  leaving, 
old  man?" 

"At  the  end  of  the  month — at  the  end  of 
June." 

"You  look  'all  in',  Dick.  Has  Glenn  given  you 
something  too  hard  to  do?  It's  the  devil,  isn't  it, 
when  a  girl  can  give  you  trumps  and  aces? — you 
can't  hold  back  and  lie  down  on  the  job." 

Carrington — legs  stretched  to  the  blaze,  hands 
stuffed  in  pockets — regarded  Grey  as  if  he  had  never 
seen  him  before.  It  seemed  strange,  but,  after 
the  first  plunge  Arnold  had  been  easy;  Arnold  was 
no  fool;  he  would  be  an  ugly  customer  if  things  were 
not  straight.  But  Grey,  now  that  Carrington  esti 
mated  him,  had  an  advantage  that  Arnold  had  not. 
He'd  had  a  background  of  Carrington  which  Arnold 
lacked.  Why  this  should  cause  Carrington  a  mo 
ment's  unrest,  he  could  not  know. 

"Mac";  Carrington  clutched  the  bottom  seam 
of  his  pockets;  "Mac,  I'm  engaged  to  marry  Glenn 
Arnold!"  It  sounded  positively  silly.  If  he  could 
have  added:  "I've  hidden  her  in  a  mountain  cave 


158  UNBROKEN  LINES 

— she's  mine,"  it  would  have  seemed  in  keeping  with 
things. 

Grey  turned  his  clear,  steady  eyes  on  his  visitor 
and  said  slowly: 

"What  sort  of  damned  nonsense  are  you  trying  to 
put  over,  Dick  ? " 

Carrington  tried  to  resent  this,  but  failed.  He  re 
sorted  to  subterfuge. 

"Mac;  do  you  remember  that  diamond  I  brought 
from  Africa — the  one  that  deceived  everyone  else? 
Do  you  remember  it  after  I  got  through  with  it — had 
it  cut  and  polished?  I  knew  that  stone,  didn't  I?" 

Grey's  steady  stare  was  not  encouraging.  It  de 
noted  more  interest  in  the  man  than  in  his  achieve 
ments. 

"I  took  that  stone  in  the  rough,  Mac.  I  had  faith 
in  it  and — in  myself.  I'm  not  much  given  to  flights 
of  imagination,  as  you  know,  but  it  seems  to  me  that 
between  Glenn  and — and  that  diamond  there  is  a 
distinct  connection.  I  am  going  to  have  it  set  in  her 
engagement  ring." 

Never  before  in  his  life  had  Grey  known  the  stun 
ned  sensation  that  now  overcame  him.  He  felt  the 
cruel  injustice  of  a  mistake  that  he  could  not  right. 
He  felt  the  walls  crumbling  but  he  could  neither  pre 
vent  the  catastrophe  nor  warn  those  in  peril.  His 
own  love  was  the  insurmountable  barrier.  Because 
of  that  he  dared  not  speak.  Anything  he  might  say 
would  first  have  to  bear  that  mark,  and  so  lay  itself 
open  to  wrong  interpretation — even  by  himself.  He 
felt  stifled,  angry  and  impotent. 

"If  you  don't  mind,"  he  said,  vaguely, "perhaps 
you'll  tell  me  what  you're  talking  about,  Dick."' 


UNBROKEN  LINES  159 

Carrington  coloured.  "  Is  it  so  strange  to  you,  Mac, 
that  a  girl — such  a  girl  as  Glenn  Arnold — should 
sweep  a  man  off  his  feet  ?  She's  like  that  diamond, 
you  know;  it  took  me  just  twenty-four  hours  to  see — 
well,  to  see  how  she  would  be  when  cut  and  polished." 

Grey  gave  a  mental  shudder  as  if  the  knife  and 
buffer  struck  his  soul. 

"And — and  you've  undertaken  the  job,  Dick? 
Well,  by  God!"  The  world  seemed  a  devastated 
wilderness! 

Grey,  at  last,  got  a  comprehensive  idea  of  the 
crude  elementals.  Women  were  Sex  to  Carrington. 
Viewed  alone  as  Sex,  Grey  began  to  understand 
Glenn's  appeal.  Her  physical  charm;  her  mental 
superiority  to  her  "class,"  as  Carrington  would  term 
it,  could  not  fail  to  attract  the  nature  of  a  man  who 
longed,  always,  to  possess  what  was  rare  or  unique, 
and  who  craved  power  and  achievement.  This,  in 
conjunction  with  Glenn's  apparent  influence  over 
Carrington's  sluggish  imagination,  accounted  for 
what  had  occurred,  but  Grey  was  appalled  at  what 
he  felt  would  inevitably  be  the  result,  when,  in  the 
light  of  full  understanding,  these  two  natures — 
separated  by  a  world  of  difference,  each  strong  and 
clearly  defined — confronted  each  other  in  the  open! 
He,  himself,  seemed  no  longer  to  exist. 

"Yes;  God  helping  me,  Mac,"  Carrington  was 
saying  in  a  reverent  tone,  "I  am,  as  you  express  it, 
undertaking  the  job ! " 

"Hold  on!"  Grey  got  up  and  closed  the  door.  He 
had  an  impulse  to  keep  Carrington  to  himself  until 
he  was  through  with  him. 

In   the   meantine    Carrington   was    rhapsodizing: 


160  UNBROKEN  LINES 

"She's  primal,  Mac.  She's  divine.  Think  of  her 
one,  two,  ten  years  hence!  I  am  going  to  give  her 
travel  and  all  that  wealth  can  provide.  I  am 
going  to  devote  myself  to  her  and  watch  her  evolve 
into  the  All-woman  type.  And  can  you  not  think, 
Mac,  with  your  imagination,  what  it  means  to  me — 
a  man  sunk  in  the  belief  that  there  was  nothing  new, 
nothing  untried — to  come  face  to  face  with  this 
woman  who,  by  her  very  untested  powers,  can  stir  me 
to  my  depths — make  me  willing  and  glad  to  fling 
every  restriction  aside  in  order  to  prove  my  belief 
in  her  promise  and  my  own — vision?" 

It  was  at  this  point  that  Grey  lost  control  of  him 
self.  He  towered  over  Carrington. 

"Shut  up!"  he  commanded  in  so  fierce  a  tone  that 
he  brought  his  bewildered  companion  rather  roughly 
to  a  halt. 

"What — did  you  say?"  Carrington  asked,  con 
fusedly.  For  no  man  likes  to  be  hauled  down  by  a 
force  of  which  he  is  unaware. 

"I  said:  'Shut  up!'  and  I've  got  something  more 
to  say  to  you."  Grey  flung  himself  into  a  chair. 
"Are  you  a  damned  fool,  Dick?"  he  half  whispered, 
though,  somehow,  the  words  gave  the  impression 
of  being  shouted.  "Don't  you  know  what's  the 
matter  with  you?  Why  in  thunder  don't  you  call 
things  by  their  right  names?" 

Carrington  was  indignant,  naturally,  but  he  was 
also  most  forbearing. 

"Of  course,  Mac,"  he  replied,  evenly,  "I  can  quite 
understand  how  a  fellow  like  you — I  don't  mean 
to  hurt  you,  old  man,  but  your  ideals  of  love  and 
women  do  differ  from  mine." 


UNBROKEN  LINES  161 

This  brought  Grey  to  his  senses. 

"Yes;  my  ideals  have  been  different,"  he  said, 
bitterly;  "they  are  now.  I  never  offered  a  woman  a 
crazy  passion  and  called  it  love!  I  never  wanted  to 
twist  a  woman  out  of  shape  for  my  own  satisfaction, 
and  then  try  to  fool  myself  into  believing  I  was  doing 
her  the  big  and  noble  thing.  Why,  Glenn  Arnold" 
— emotion  was  almost  choking  Grey — "Glenn  Arnold 
is  like  the  air  up  here — like  the  snow;  you  cannot 
make  her — she's  made!  She  may,  Heaven  knows — 
she  may  think  she  loves  you.  You've  offered  her 
something  that  she  loves;  she  loves  Love\  but,  man, 
it's  yourself  you've  got  to  fix  up,  for  if  she  finds  you 
less  than  Love  has  made  you  seem  to  be,  she'll  turn 
from  you  without  a  moment's  doubt.  Don't,  for 
her  sake  and  your  own,  do  such  a  damned  rotten 
thing  as  to  take  that  girl  away,  drugged,  and  then 
let  her  wake  up — down  there!" 

Carrington  rose,  stiffly.  He  looked  at  Grey, 
cruelly — keenly.  His  glorified  exaltation  was  de 
stroyed  and  he  meant  to  make  someone  suffer. 

"You're  a  poor  kind  at  hiding  your  hand,  Mac," 
he  said,  brutally.  "I  see  your  cards  now;  and  after 
the  dirty  deal  you  have  just  given  one  woman,  I 
think  it's  as  well  that  I  should  get  this  young  girl 
away  as  soon  as  possible.  "You've  got  the  father 
under  control.  I  suppose  you  thought  you  were  safe 
enough  here  in  the  wilderness,  but  I  came  at  the 
wrong — or,  shall  I  say  'opportune'? — time.  You 
might  have  been  willing  to  keep  this  paradise  for 
yourself.  I  stand  ready  to  offer  this  girl  the  earth 
for  her  heritage.  My  love  does  not  bind;  it  sets  free. 
You've  had  months  up  here.  Why — since  you  seem 


162  UNBROKEN  LINES 

so  interested — why  haven't  you  tried  to  do  what  I 
have  done?" 

Grey  was  white  with  rage.  He  went  toward  the 
door,  paused,  and  then  reflected.  In  that  moment 
he  had  a  glimpse  of  the  future.  He  felt  that  he  must 
not  put  himself  beyond  Glenn's  reach!  Nothing 
else  mattered.  That  she  would  need  him,  he  never 
doubted,  and  he  must  be  prepared. 

"Dick,"  he  said,  presently,  "like  everyone  else  in 
high  moments,  we're  both  right;  and  both  wrong. 
Will  you  shake  hands?" 

Carrington  stretched  his  own  out  at  once.  In  the 
act,  they  unconsciously  signed  a  pact  with  Fate. 

Early  the  next  morning  Glenn  went  to  Grey's 
cabin.  She  had  seen  him  moving  about.  The  love- 
light  had  not  been  dimmed  by  sleep;  it  had  been 
brightened.  The  sight  of  the  girl  almost  unnerved 
Grey,  but  he  steeled  himself  for  his  part. 

"It's  a  wonderful  thing  that  has  happened  to  me, 
Mac,"  she  confided;  "do  you  know?" 

"Yes.     Dick  came  over  last  night." 

"May  I  make  your  breakfast,  Mac?  The  other 
house  is  not  astir  yet.  I  wanted  you  just  to  myself 
— in  the  early  morning.  I  wanted  to  begin  the  day 
with — you." 

Grey  could  not  speak  but  he  set  about  gathering 
the  food  for  a  simple  meal.  He  drew  up  a  small  table 
to  the  door  where  they  could  watch  the  coming,  rosy 
morning. 

"It  was  only  yesterday,"  Glenn  said,  passing  a 
cup  of  coffee  to  Grey,  "only  yesterday  when  I  was 
just — Glenn!  And  then,  Mac,  I  took  my  own  little, 


UNBROKEN  LINES  163 

secret  trail  up  the  Twins,  and  I  surprised — surprised 
Dick"  (she  spoke  the  name  as  if  it  were  a  hard  one 
that  she  had  just  mastered)  "by  going  out  on  the 
bridge.  He  was  so  frightened  that  he  forgot  every 
thing — the  common  things — and  saw  only  the  person 
that  he  thinks  I  am;  not  Glenn  at  all,  Mac.  And 
now,  all  my  life  I  am  going  to  try  to  be  the  thing  he 
thinks  me,  for  it  is  so  beautiful  and  it  is  so  wonderful 
to  be  that  thing.  It  frightens  me;  I  never  was  afraid 
before." 

"Maybe  you  never  needed,  before,  to  be  frightened, 
child."  Grey  gulped  his  hot  coffee. 

"But  you  are  glad  about  me,  aren't  you,  Mac? 
— glad  that  a  sudden,  great  light  showed  me  every 
thing  at  once?"  Then,  after  a  pause:  "I  cannot 
tell  you  why,  Mac,  but  I'd  rather  have  you  glad  than 
—Dad!" 

"If  you  are  happy,  Glenn,  then  I  am  glad." 

"I  don't  see  how  I  could  be  happier,  Mac  dear. 
Why,  I  love  the  whole  world  better  to-day — because 
of  yesterday.  I  seem  to  feel  that  everything  is  mine. 
Mac,  this  is  love,  isn't  it?" 

The  dear,  clear  eyes  were  upon  him,  and  Grey,  with 
all  his  yearning  to  speak  truly  to  her,  could  not!  He 
wanted  to  tell  her  how  it  would  be  when  the  lurid 
light  of  Carrington's  big  bonfire  died  down.  He 
wanted  to  show  her  the  man  that  Carrington  was — 
a  straight,  unbroken  line  down  from  an  ancestry  that 
prided  itself  on  its  lack  of  curves.  And  then  a  grim 
smile  touched  his  lips.  How  futile  any  words  that 
he  could  speak  would  be  to  this  girl,  drunk  with  her 
own  ideal  of  love.  Every  damaging  thing  he  might 
say  would  seem  virtue;  any  doubt  that  he  might 


164  UNBROKEN  LINES 

arouse  would  be  directed  toward  himself,  not  toward 
Carrington. 

Grey  arose  and  went  around  to  Glenn;  he  took 
her  hands  and  drew  her  to  her  feet. 

"You  know  what  love  is,  child;  you've  got  it 
straight  enough,  and  it  ought  to  illume  all  the  way 
on  ahead  for  you." 

"Thank  you,  dear  Mac.  Of  course,  I've  thought 
about  love  as  all  girls  do.  I  dreamed  that  it  would 
reach  me,  some  day,  up  here;  but  I  never  got  any 
further.  The  idea  of  me  going  out  into  the  great 
unknown  world! — that  never  occurred  to  me,  and 
now  it  almost  takes  away  my  breath!  It's  not  in 
the  least  like  what  I  expected,  Mac;  it's  made  me 
into  something  quite  different — something  strong 
enough  to  do  things." 

"You  will  be  enormously  rich,  child." 

"All  the  better  to  help  with,  Mac."  But  Grey 
looked  serious.  "A  big  world,"  Glenn  chattered 
on;  "and  a  big  lot  of  money,  and  always  finding  out 
what  people  need,  and  giving  it  to  them — just  as 
your  dear  Beverly  Train  does.  And  then  coming 
up  here  to  tell  you  all  about  it;  you  will  stay  a  little 
while  with  Dad,  won't  you,  Mac  ?  Why,  it's  a  fairy 
story." 

"I  will  stay,  Glenn,  until  your  father  gets  used  to 
• — to  waiting  for  you  to  come  back.  I'll  stalk  through 
the  fairy  story  just  because  I've  got  started  in  it." 

"And  oh!  Mac;  I  shall  have  a  beautiful  home  some 
where — Dick  says  I  may  make  just  the  kind  I  want 
— and  I  shall  have  little  children,  and  be  the  best 
mother  to  them  that  ever  was.  That's  life,  isn't 
it,  Mac?" 


UNBROKEN  LINES  165 

As  she  stood  there  with  the  morning  on  her  face 
Grey  closed  his  eyes — for  he  saw  that  Carrington 
had  opened  the  gate  of  life  wider  than  he  had  in 
tended.  And  Glenn  was  pushing  in,  not  waiting  for 
revealment.  But  he  also  knew  that  Carrington's 
hand  was  on  the  door! 

Glenn  was  married  during  the  third  week  of  June. 
A  minister  tourist  happened  to  be  at  the  Lodge  and 
this  hurried  things  a  little.  There  was  no  pretense 
of  celebration.  Polly's  wedding  had  been  magnifi 
cent  by  comparison. 

Glenn  wore  an  absurd  gown  that  had  been  selected 
from  a  catalogue.  It  made  Carrington  shiver,  until 
he  realized  how  easily  all  that  could  be  remedied  at 
the  first  city.  For  ornament  Glenn  wore  her  amber 
beads! 

Polly  wept  through  the  entire  ceremony.  Sam, 
who  was  temporarily  at  home,  looked  stunned  and 
awkward;  he  stood  by  the  outer  door  in  an  attitude 
that  suggested  flight.  Arnold's  face  was  bereft  of 
expression;  had  his  girl's  life,  instead  of  her  happiness, 
lain  in  danger,  he  could  not  have  looked  more  death 
like. 

Events  had  been  rushed  faster  than  he  could  con 
trol  them.  Now  he  felt  that  he  ought  to  have  held 
them  back.  He  had  listened,  over  and  over  again, 
to  all  that  Grey  had  told  about  Carrington  and  his 
family.  It  had  seemed  all  right — a  little  awe- 
inspiring,  perhaps,  when  the  solidity  began  to  include 
Glenn. 

Grey  had  been  generous — since  he  could  not  be 
frank;  but  in  the  end  he  left  Arnold  in  a  more  per 
plexed  state  of  mind  than  he  had  found  him  in. 


166  UNBROKEN  LINES 

"It's  a  sure  enough  spring  freshet,  Mac,"  he  said, 
shaking  his  head,  "and  I  don't  seem  to  have  been 
able  to  clutch  anything  to  hold  to  on  my  way  down. 
All  my  old  landmarks  have  gone  with  the  rest.  When 
all's  said  and  done  I  have  a  feeling  that  my  girl's  got 
what  rightfully  doesn't  belong  to  her;  and  yet  I  don't 
see,  even  now,  how  it  could  have  been  prevented; 
I  swear  I  don't." 

Then  Grey  resorted  to  heroic  treatment.  "See 
here,  Arnold;  it  happens  now  and  then  that  Life 
reaches  up — or  down — and  takes  what  it  needs.  It 
isn't  all  Glenn,  you  know.  It's  quite  possible  that 
she  may  make  a  big  thing  of  Dick.  Then  again, 
anything  as  surprising  as  this  must  mean  something. 
Glenn,  I  imagine,  will  be  willing  to  pay  the  toll  of  the 
Big  Highway. 

"You  don't  think  anything  can  really  harm  her,  do 
you,  Arnold?" 

"No!  by  the  Lord,  I  don't."  Arnold  did  not  say 
this  irreverently  but  as  one  might  voice  a  prayer  of 
gratitude,  and  he  flung  his  head  back  proudly.  After 
that  he  could,  with  some  show  of  cheerfulness,  see 
Morton  drive  the  newly  married  pair  down  the  trail. 

Glenn's  last  words  had  been  full  of  joy  and  childish 
excitement. 

"It's  just  as  if  I  had  been  given  wings,  Daddy," 
she  said,  clinging  to  him.  "I  shall  never  be  away 
for  long.  I'm  to  see  the  whole  world — think,  Dad, 
the  whole  world! — and  every  little  while  I'll  be  back 
to  tell  you  how  it  looks!  Perhaps  by  my  birthday 
I'll  be  back  and  we'll  celebrate  on  the  Monk.  It's  a 
disgrace  that  we  have  never  made  that  climb!" 

Carrington,  having  seen  his  young  wife's  capacity 


UNBROKEN  LINES  167 

for  magnifying  his  powers,  had  taken  an  almost  boy 
ish  delight  in  exhibiting  them. 

"There  is  nothing,"  he  repeated,  "that  you  cannot 
have,  my  darling.  Your  will  is  my  law  so  long  as — 
I  am  with  you!" 

"Oh!  I  never  want  to  be  away  from  you,  Dick, 
dear.  Why — you  are  my — what  shall  I  say,  dear? 
— my — my  self!" 

"Your  husband,  darling." 

"Yes,  my  husband." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

IT  WAS  in  late  August  that  Polly's  baby  was  born 
and  they  called  him  Davey  because  Polly  had 
always  loved  the  name.     He  was  a  dear  little 
chap,  and,  from  the  first  hour  of  his  life,  his  eyes 
dominated  his  face. 

Sam  was  awed  by  the  child's  coming.  Before  his 
actual  appearance  he  had  seemed  a  vague  reason  for 
bringing  about  unwanted  results.  But,  once  he  lay 
curled  on  Polly's  arm,  he  became  the  convincing  Rea 
son  for  all  things.  Polly  was  transformed  because  of 
him — she  had  made  him  possible!  The  home  must 
be  guarded  and  made  fit  always — because  of  him. 
All  Sam's  unshielded  youth  rose  up  and  pleaded — in 
little  Davey. 

Polly  had  to  learn  to  be  a  mother;  but  the  pater 
nal  in  Sam  appeared  only  to  have  been  awaiting  re 
lease.  He  hung  over  the  child  and,  because  he  de 
sired  that  the  future  might  be  secure,  he  worked  with 
a  kind  of  passion.  He  undertook  greater  areas,  but 
his  roving  spirit  was  held  in  check  by  his  yearning  to 
note  every  change  in  his  child. 

Arnold,  missing  Glenn  until  his  big  heart  ached, 
found  distinct  comfort  in  Polly's  cabin.  His  old 
talent  for  caring  for  babies  returned,  and  when  he 
felt  wee  Davey's  fingers  clutch  his  thumb,  he  thrilled, 
as  a  woman  thrills. 

168 


UNBROKEN  LINES  169 

Grey  had  never,  consciously,  noticed  babies  in 
dividually  but  after  viewing  Polly's  several  times 
he  asked  confusedly: 

"Are  they  all  as  different  from  one  another  as 
Davey  is?" 

And  Polly,  answering  the  question  as  if  it  had  been 
lucid,  replied :  "Certainly  not,  Mr.  Mac." 

Grey  smiled  and  reflected:  "The  fish  is  landed  all 
right!  Queer  how  anything  so  preposterously  little 
and  red  and  weak  can  grapple  such  a  big  proposi 
tion  and — solve  it!" 

He  wrote  all  about  Davey  to  Glenn  who,  after  a 
brief  visit  to  the  Carrington  home  in  Massachusetts, 
was  to  be  wafted  overseas  to  England,  where  one  of 
the  pleasant  places  that  Carrington  liked  was  to  be 
her  home  for  a  time.  (The  world  was  somewhat 
contracting  during  the  "polishing"  period.) 

Arnold,  also,  wrote  about  Davey.  And  Polly 
wrote;  and  then,  lastly,  Sam. 

He  scrawled: 

Once  I  said  to  you,  Glenn,  that  no  matter  what  you  told  me 
to  do  Fd  do  it — knowing  it  would  be  right.  I  kicked,  some,  over 
this  tying  of  me  up,  but  it  was  all  right.  I  ought  to  have  known. 
Davey  proves  it.  He's  got  the  biggest  eyes  you  ever  saw,  Glenn. 
He  looks  like  he  could  see  the  whole,  eternal  earth. 

They  all  wrote  about  Davey's  eyes — the  big,  far- 
seeing  eyes.  Glenn  noticed  this.  "They  look  like  I 
felt  when  I  first  knew  he  was  coming,"  Polly  wrote — 
"  the  time  when  I  thought  I  had  to  go  to  Connor's. 
They  are  not  frightened  eyes,  exactly,  but  watching- 
out  eyes."  Glenn  was  deeply  touched  by  Davey's 
coming  and  she  sent  him  some  lovely  and  dainty  gifts. 


170  UNBROKEN  LINES 

Her  letters  home  were  often  puzzling.  "They 
sound,"  Arnold  said,  "as  if  my  girl  were  getting  some 
one  else  to  write  for  her.  They  are  Glenn,  but  some 
one  else  besides/'  The  bewildering  changes,  the 
beautiful  clothes,  the  jewels,  the  people,  were  setting 
the  girl's  brain  to  a  giddy  whirl;  and  her  letters 
proved  it. 

I  haven't  thought  one  minute  since  I  left,  Daddy.  All  day 
I  go  flitting  about,  and  at  night  Fm  so  tired  that  I  forget  every 
thing. 

The  world  is  really  the  biggest  place  one  ever  dreamed  of, 
and  it  is  crammed  with  the  most  amazing  things  that  are  not  in 
our  catalogue,  Dad.  I'm  mighty  glad  that  I  have  all  those  facts 
that  my  professor  squeezed  into  my  head;  they  come  in  handy. 
Every  once  in  a  while  something  happens  and  I  pull  out  a  bit  of 
knowledge — and  it  fits!  Then  Dick  looks  so  surprised  and 
proud.  I  am  afraid  he  feared  that  I  was  a  sad  fool — his  love 
seems  all  the  more  wonderful  on  that  account. 

And  Dad,  I  can  keep  in  step  with  the  procession!  Sometimes 
I  have  to  mark  time,  and  Dick  holds  my  hand;  then  on  I  go. 
The  whole  parade  is  so  kind  to  me.  They  think  I  am  like  the 
air  from  my  mountains.  That's  funny;  but  they  mean  it  as  a 
compliment.  When  I  get  a  bit  breathless  they  all  stop  and  wait 
for  me — at  least  it  seems  to  me  that  they  do.  They  never  get 
angry,  as  dear  old  Mac  said  they  might. 

The  roar  of  the  sea  frightened  me,  Dad.  I  heard  it  long  be 
fore  Dick  thought  it  was  possible.  It  is  always  in  my  ears, 
though  now  I  am  getting  a  bit  used  to  it.  When  I  am  alone,  or 
at  night,  it  makes  me  cry.  It  is  trying  to  tell  me  something 
that  I  cannot  understand.  It's  the  only  thing  down  here  that 
really  makes  me  want  to  run  away — home. 

Tell  Polly  that  no  one  can  love  Davey  more  than  I  do  and  I 
think  he  is  opening  his  eyes  wide,  trying  to  see  me,  'way  down  here! 

Grey  had  a  letter  from  Glenn  that  he  did  not  share 
with  Arnold.  It  was  written  just  before  she  went 
abroad. 


UNBROKEN  LINES  171 

Mac,  dear,  it  makes  me  very  happy  to  think  of  you  with  Dad. 
If  he  were  alone  I  couldn't  cross  the  big  sea  that  roars  so — I  just 
couldn't. 

I  shall  be  glad  to  get  to  that  English  house  to  which  we  are 
going.  Dick  has  pictures  of  it;  it  has  trees  and  quiet  places  to 
rest  in.  I'm  whisked  about  so  fast  that  I  cannot  touch  things; 
I  just  look  at  them. 

I  hardly  got  to  Dick's  real,  own  home  before  I  was  in  something 
with  wheels — and  off!  Wheels  are  always  waiting  for  me — nice 
automobiles  and  cars. 

I'm  very  rich,  Mac.  I  saw  the  tall  chimneys  of  the  place  where 
all  our  money  is  made;  it  just  flows  out.  "You  turn  the  wheels," 
Dick  says — at  least  a  man  named  Thompson  does — and  whoop! 
out  comes  the  money  that  makes  the  world  go  round — and  me 
with  it! 

And  such  clothes  as  I  have,  Mac.  Some  of  them  make  me  feel 
queer.  Dick  says  he  cannot  see  why,  since  trousers  didn't.  I 
have  glittering  things  to  wear  on  my  neck — not  half  as  pretty  as 
Dad's  amber  beads,  though — and  I  do  wear  the  beads  often, 
especially  with  a  yellow  dress  that  matches  them. 

I  have  a  tremendous  diamond  in  a  ring;  Dick  calls  it  the  Glenn. 
He's  very  funny  at  times.  He  says  this  stone  was  mine  before 
Time  was!  Now  that  is  a  joke,  and  I  haven't  found  the  answer 
yet.  Don't  tell  Dick,  but  I  do  not  care  for  the  big  diamond.  I 
don't  know  why,  but  I  don't.  It  tires  my  hand. 

I've  been  so  breathless  and  hurried  since  that  day  when  I  left 
home  that  I  have  not  had  much  time  to  sit  by  myself  and  see 
myself;  but  I've  had  one  blessed  breathing  spell,  Mac.  Beverly 
Train  sent  for  me,  and  Dick  let  me  go — alone!  It  was  the  most 
lovely,  cool  July  evening — just  light  enough  to  see  the  purple — 
dark,  you  know!  I  went  into  the  garden  and  I  saw — very  dimly 
(for  she  was  in  a  long  chair,  half  covered  up) — your  Beverly 
Train!  Just  at  first  she  was  a  Voice — a  beautiful,  sweet,  kind 
Voice.  After  a  little  while  she  said  I  might  come  near  and  see 
how  little  there  was  of  her.  But  oh  Mac! — she  is  big  enough  to  fill 
a  large  place,  after  you  know  her.  She  put  her  dear,  pretty  hand 
on  mine  and  she  said  some  very  strange  things.  She  told  me 
that  I  mustn't  try  too  hard  to  please  Dick,  or  I  wouldn't.  She 
said  Dick  wanted  something,  and  that  I  must  try  to  be  and  to 
remain  that  something.  How  odd  it  sounded!  But  I'm  be- 


172  UNBROKEN  LINES 

ginning  to  understand,  for  whenever  I  slump — ever  so  little— 
Dick  looks  as  if  I  had  hurt  him. 

And  then  Beverly  told  me  a  good  deal  about  you,  Mac.  I 
just  sat  and  listened  and  cried,  for  I  realized  that  I  had  not  known 
you  at  all — the  real  You.  She  said  that  you  were  the  first  one 
who  made  her  see  what  a  coward  she  was  to  be  ashamed  of  the 
way  God  had  created  her.  You  were,  she  told  me,  her  first 
friend. 

Grey  did  not  show  this  letter  to  any  one,  but  he 
re-read  it,  again  and  again. 

Throughout  that  summer  tourists  came  and  went; 
when  Arnold  did  not  care  to  act  as  guide,  Grey  took 
to  the  trails.  He  had  never  been  so  well  nor  so  strong 
in  his  life,  and  when  once  he  and  Arnold  had  got  over 
the  first  sickening  sense  of  loss  they  had  felt  at 
Glenn's  going,  they  settled  down,  like  the  two  con 
genial  comrades  that  they  were,  and  really  enjoyed  it. 
Grey  did  not  do  much  writing,  for  the  outdoor  life 
filled  all  the  waking  hours;  the  rest  were  forgot  like 
Glenn's  weary  nights. 

Polly's  baby  was  a  sweet,  tender  undercurrent  of 
delight.  Davey  was  a  beautiful  child  from  the  mo 
ment  that  the  flabby,  pink  stage  was  past.  He 
laughed  at  a  remarkably  early  age,  and  took  to  any 
form  of  life  that  offered  action  and  amusement. 
Above  all  else  he  loved  to  ride  in  Sam's  arms  when 
Sam  travelled  to  the  near-by  houses.  The  soft 
little  bundle,  gathered  close  to  Morton's  breast  by 
one  hand,  while  the  other  guided  the  spirited  horse, 
kept  all  temptation  from  the  young  father. 

"You  don't  pass  anything  wrong  over  a  little  head 
like  that,"  Sam  explained  to  Arnold;  "why,  Davey's 
hair  is  clear  gold,  Arnold — clear,  fine  gold." 


"The  soft  little  bundle  was  gathered  close  to  Morton  s  breast 
by  one  hand,  while  the  other  guided  the  spirited  horse" 


UNBROKEN  LINES  173 

But  it  was  the  beauty  of  the  child's  eyes  that  held 
them  all.  Those  large,  far-seeing,  peaceful  eyes! 
It  was  the  peace  in  them  that  made  Polly  anxious. 

"I  never  saw  eyes  like  them/'  she  confided  to  Grey, 
"they're  too  peaceful-like,  Mr.  Mac." 

Grey  was  looking  at  the  child  lying  in  its  basket- 
cradle.  Suddenly  he  started.  Then,  when  Polly 
was  not  looking,  he  made  a  rapid  motion  before  the 
wide,  clear  eyes.  The  peace  in  them  was  unmoved. 
A  sickening  fear  rose  in  Grey's  heart. 

"Polly,  put  Davey  in  his  riding  togs  and  let  me  see 
whether  I  can  perform  Sam's  stunt  with  him  on 
horseback." 

"Oh!  Mr.  Mac,  you  surely  don't  want  to  be  pes 
tered  with  little  Davey."  But  Polly  really  was 
hugely  pleased. 

"Yes,  I  do;  I  want  to  make  Sam  jealous." 

And  so  Davey  was  put  across  Grey's  saddle  and 
trotted  down  to  the  Lodge.  He  slept  part  of  the 
way,  his  pretty,  soft  face  lying  close  to  Grey's  breast, 
and  when  he  wakened  and  the  sun  shone  on  his  eyes 
— the  peace  still  held,  unwaveringly! 

A  physician  of  high  reputation  was  staying,  just 
then,  at  the  Lodge.  The  night  before  he  had  been 
relating  some  of  his  experiences  among  children: 
tests;  remarkable  cures — largely  the  correcting  of 
inherited  symptoms,  taken  in  time.  Grey,  jogging 
along  with  the  tiny,  warm  body  in  the  hollow  of  his 
arm,  and  knowing  that  the  moment  was  drawing 
nigh  when  his  fears  were  to  be  verified  or  set  to  rest, 
experienced  a  sickening  sense  of  helplessness  and, 
at  the  same  time,  of  power.  If  Davey  were  all  right, 
then  he  must  take  his  chances  in  life — with  a  boost, 


174  UNBROKEN  LINES 

now  and  then,  out  of  pure  kindliness;  but  if  he  had 
been  started  with  a  handicap,  and  if  science  could 
overcome  it,  then  Grey  might  step  in.  He  had  no 
longer  any  need  for  saving  or  planning  for  his  own 
future.  Here  was  something  weak  and  small — some 
thing  that  Glenn  would  have  loved  and  mourned 
over — right  at  hand  for  his  helping.  Little  Davey 
of  the  hill  cabin  at  that  moment  represented  all 
piteous  childhood  to  Grey  and  he  saw  him  through 
eyes  made  understanding  by  the  simple  humanity 
he  had  learned  on  the  heights. 

'  Arnold  and  the  doctor  were  on  the  Lodge  porch, 
smoking.  They  had  just  returned  from  a  climb  and 
were  in  the  best  of  spirits,  swapping  stories  and  roar 
ing  with  laughter. 

"Well,  by  all  that's  holy!"  exclaimed  Arnold,  sud 
denly;  "if  there  isn't  Grey  with  Morton's  Davey  on 
his  saddle.  What's  up,  Mac?" 

"Nothing.  Just  giving  the  kid  an  airing.  I 
wanted  Dr.  Cornish  to  have  a  look  at  him;  label  him, 
as  you  might  say,  good,  bad,  or  indifferent." 

"That's  a  darned  funny  thing  for  you  to  do,  Mac." 
Arnold  was  serious  and  alert  at  once. 

Cornish  tossed  his  cigar  aside  and  strode  heavily 
over  to  Grey  as  he  dismounted.  He,  too,  realized 
that  there  was  more  in  this  little  episode  than  ap 
peared  on  the  surface.  He  took  the  baby  in  his  arms 
— those  big,  tender  arms  that  children  naturally 
nestled  in.  The  grave,  bearded  man  had  a  voice  of 
thunder  for  sham  or  cowardice;  he  was  merciless 
to  brutality  or  lack  of  self-control;  but  where  real 
suffering  or  helpless  childhood  was  concerned,  he  was 
not  merely  a  giant  of  power  but  a  giant  of  gentleness. 


UNBROKEN  LINES  175 

As  he  took  Davey  he  said  quickly,  with  his  quiet,  pro 
fessional  air: 

"Pretty  little  rascal  for  so  young  a  baby.  Good 
features,  too.  The  bumps  on  the  skull  are  all  in 
the  right  places." 

Davey  had  been  napping,  his  eyes  were  still  closed, 
but  he  snuggled  in  the  strong  arms,  cunningly. 

"Look  up,  sonny,  let's  have  a  peep  into  your  win 
dows  and  see  what  kind  of  a  disposition  you've  got 
with  this  mouth  and  forehead.  That's  the  boy!" 

Davey's  lids  lifted.  Those  wonderful  eyes  lay  ex 
posed  to  the  keen  ones  fixed  upon  them. 

"Give  me  a  match,  Arnold."  Arnold  came  up 
with  one.  "Light  it.  Pass  it  close  in  front  of  the 
eyes."  Arnold's  hand  trembled. 

Jsust  then,  unobserved  by  any  one,  Sam  came 
around  the  corner  of  the  house  and  stood  still,  per 
plexed  by  the  scene  near  him. 

"The — the  baby  is  stone  blind!"  The  words  fell, 
not  harshly  but  with  a  finality  that  cut  like  a  knife. 

Arnold  gave  forth  a  sound  that  was  almost  a  sob, 
and  turned  away. 

"But — we've  taken  it  in  time,  haven't  we?" 
gasped  Grey,  white  and  tense.  "I've  suspected  this, 
that's  why  I  brought  the  baby  here.  You  can  do 
something;  suggest  something.  I'll  stand  back  of 
anything  that  can  be  done,  Cornish." 

"Grey;  this  is  a  case  of  nothing  to  do.  There  is 
no  sight!" 

As  if  Davey  disputed  this  he  gurgled  rapturously 
and  reached  forth  his  tiny  hand,  seeking  something  to 
which  he  might  cling.  Cornish  seemed  to  be  holding 
the  child  in  the  hollow  of  one  of  his  huge  hands;  with 


176  UNBROKEN  LINES 

the  other  he  clasped  the  waxen,  groping  fingers.  He 
did  not  utter  a  word,  but  all  the  commiseration  of  the 
big-hearted  gathered  in  his  eyes  as  he  gazed  upon 
wee  Davey. 

At  this  moment  Sam  staggered  forward  like  a 
drunken  man.  A  fierce  fire  burned  in  his  eyes. 

"What  did  you  say?"  he  moaned;  "say  it  again." 

Cornish  turned  and  answered  this  new  call. 

"Brace  up,  Morton.  It's  hard,  devilish  hard, 
and  it  seems  unjust,  unfair;  but  you've  got  to  face 
the  music,  man.  The  little  chap  is  never  to  see. 
He's  blind!" 

Then  Morton  understood.  His  face  grew  old  as 
the  three  men  watched  it  in  silence.  All  the  gay, 
indifferent,  debonair  expression  faded  as  if  the  hand 
of  Time  had  blotted  it  out.  In  its  place  a  sad  resig 
nation  grew  and  grew.  Turning  to  Grey,  he  said: 

"Come  back  with  me;  come  back,  for  Pity's  sake, 
and  tell  Polly!" 

Grey  shrank.  For  a  moment  he  felt  that  he  could 
not;  then  he  drew  himself  up. 

"All  right,  Sam.  I'll  take  Davey.  You  come 
on  a  little  behind;  we  don't  want  to  startle  Polly." 

So  up  the  trail  they  went.  The  birds  sang;  the 
sun  slanted  through  the  tall  rocks;  the  trees  cast 
shadows,  long  and  dark.  Davey  was  in  high  glee. 
He  cooed  and  gurgled  and  kept  waving  his  little 
hands.  Grey,  lost  in  thought,  let  his  horse  jog  on; 
looking  far  ahead — demanding,  since  all  else  had 
failed,  that  his  imagination  explore  and  find  some  way 
out  of  the  gloom.  From  the  distance  the  sound  of 
Sam's  horse  came  less  and  less  distinct.  The  heavy 
heart  of  the  young  father  was  holding  him  back. 


UNBROKEN  LINES  177 

Polly  was  waiting  at  the  cabin  door.  Her  face 
was  illumined.  She  had  a  beauty  that  was,  at  times, 
startling.  Davey  had  created  it.  He  had  done 
more;  he  had  awakened  in  the  mother  a  clairvoyance 
of  protecting  love  which  was  to  outrun  any  effort 
that  Grey  might  make  to  save  her. 

During  the  hours  that  her  arms  had  been  empty 
and  the  cabin  deathly  still  Polly  had  had  time  to 
think. 

"It  was  a  queer  thing  for  Mr.  Mac  to  do — take  a 
six-weeks-old  baby  for  a  ride!"  So  the  thought  be 
gan.  "He's  keeping  him  a  long  time!"  (Hardly 
a  half  hour  had  passed.)  "He  couldn't  be  thinking 
of  taking  him  to  the  Lodge — who  would  care  to  see 
the  baby  there?"  Then,  with  a  strange  tightening 
of  the  heart  muscles :  "What's  the  name  of  that  big 
doctor  at  the  Lodge? — the  one  that  set  a  crooked  leg 
straight,  farther  up  the  trail,  and  put  strange  fasten 
ings  on  Mary  Thomas's  girl's  back?" 

It  was  then  that  Polly  had  run  to  her  door.  The 
house  stifled  her.  "Davey!  Davey!"  she  called, 
just  to  keep  her  spirits  up.  "Davey;  come  to 
mammy."  She  seemed  to  see  the  pretty,  soft,  little 
face — feel  the  touch  of  the  fingers  on  her  aching  heart. 
"You  want  Mammy,  Davey,  don't  you?  Men  are 
so  daffy!  Taking  a  lambie  from  its  mammy  for 
hours  and  hours!" 

And  then,  when  Grey  did  appear,  she  stood  in  the 
doorway.  She  had  no  strength  to  move  her  thin 
body,  but  the  divinity  in  her — the  divine  that  had 


178  UNBROKEN  LINES 

come  with  her  child — guided  her  gently,  miracu 
lously. 

Grey  dismounted  and  put  Davey  in  the  arms  of 
love;  they  clasped  him  fiercely.  Then: 

"Mr.  Mac,  you  took  Davey  to  that  big  doctor, 
didn't  you?" 

Grey  reeled  back  from  the  unlooked-for  assault. 
He  had  barely  words  to  answer  the  desperate  appeal. 

"Yes,  Polly." 

"What  for?" 

Silence. 

"What  for,  Mr.  Mac?  Is— is  Davey  sick?  He 
couldn't  be,  and  me  not  know — me!" 

"He— he  isn't— sick,  Polly." 

"Is  it  his— legs?" 

"No." 

"His  back  then?" 

"No,  Polly." 

"It — it  can't  be Oh,  Mr.  Mac,  it  can't  be — 

his  eyes?" 

Grey  nodded. 

Polly  did  not  faint;  she  did  not  tremble.  She 
seemed,  as  Grey  watched  her,  to  be  growing  tall, 
masterful. 

"Never  see  the  light  on  the  mountains — my 
Davey?"  she  crooned.  "Never  see  the  flowers  when 
the  snow  goes?  Never  find  the  trails,  all  for  him 
self,  my  Davey?  Never  see — me  or  Sam — oh!  my 
dear  God !  What  have  we  done  that  you  should  hide 
the  light  of  day  from  my — Davey?" 

Polly  did  not  heed  Grey,  but  behind  him  she  saw 
Sam!  Then  she  asked  faintly: 

"Does  he  know?" 


UNBROKEN  LINES  179 

"He  knows,  Polly."     Grey  drew  back. 

"And  he  cares  so  much — that,  that  he  couldn't 
come,  Mr.  Mac.  He  had  to  be — alone?" 

"Yes." 

But  Sam  was  at  his  wife's  side  a  moment  later. 
At  her  side  as  he  had  never  been  before.  He  and  she 
merged  and  flowed  together — in  their  child.  They 
were  one  now.  One  for  his  care  and  protection. 
They  must  lead  true,  see  clear,  and  interpret  life  to 
the  boy  as  best  they  could. 

Then  Polly  spoke.  "Don't  go,  Mr.  Mac!"  For 
Grey  was  turning  away  with  bowed  head.  He  did 
not  feel  worthy  to  be  in  that  place.  "Mr.  Mac, 
couldn't  you  talk  to  us  ?  Can't  you — sort  of  fix  up 
something  we  can  do — for  Davey?  A  make-believe 
something  ?  It  would  be  better  than — than  nothing." 

Grey  thought  that  he  understood.  They  didn't 
want  to  be  alone;  they  were  afraid  to  face,  just  at 
first  the  burden,  the  common  burden,  that  had  been 
laid  upon  them.  So  he  sat  down  upon  the  step 
of  the  porch,  and  Sam  stood  near  while  Polly  went  to 
the  pretty  rocking  chair  that  Beverly  Train  had  sent 
her,  and  clasped  her  baby  to  her  aching  breast. 

After  awhile  Grey  began  to  speak  aloud  the 
thoughts  that  had  been  roaming,  unchecked,  through 
his  mind. 

"It's  up  to  us" — how  naturally  he  felt  that  he  be 
longed  to  them  all — "to  make  things  a  little  easier 
for  the  boy  than  otherwise  we  would.  He  will  need 
the  rough  things  toned  down.  We  can  always  tell 
him  the  best;  perhaps  he  need  never  know  the  other." 

Polly  had  ceased  to  listen,  she  was  conscious  only 
of  the  pressure  of  the  baby's  lips  upon  her  breast. 


i8o  UNBROKEN  LINES 

"We  must  make  eyes  for  Davey,"  Grey's  rambling 
words  ran  on;  "fix  things  up  a  little  better  than  they 
are.  Make  the  mountains  a  bit  higher  and  brighter, 
the  days  sunnier,  the  nights  fuller  of  stars.  Davey's 
eyes  must  see  only  the  best  and  finest." 

Sam  groaned  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"You  mustn't  fail  Davey!"  said  Grey,  challenging 
the  broken  creature  above  him. 

"Lord  knows,  I'll  try  not  to";  and  Sam  wept  like  a 
child.  But  Polly  was  singing — singing  a  low,  swing 
ing  thing  which  Glenn  had  invented  in  that  time 
when  she  and  Polly  played  dolls  together: 

Bye-oh!  little  baby  that  God  sent  to  me, 

Just  to  have  a  good  time  and  see  what  is  to  see; 

And  bye-oh!  little  baby-thing,  by-and-bye  lo,  dear, 

There's  lots  of  things  to  love  and  want,  but  nothing 't  all  to  fear. 

Grey  rose,  stiffly,  holding  his  hat  in  hand.  The 
look  in  Polly's  eyes  was  unnerving  him. 

"You'll  bring  Davey  to  the  Lodge,  Polly,  to 
morrow?"  he  said.  "I  want  Dr.  Cornish  to  talk  to 
you.  He's  the  Creator's  own  man." 

"Maybe,    Mr.    Mac.     Bye-oh    little    baby ' 

Then,  suddenly:  "You'll  tell  Glenn,  won't  you,  Mr. 
Mac?" 

"Yes,  Polly.     I'll  write  to-night." 

"Tell  her  awful  easy,  Mr.  Mac.  She  takes  things 
hard,  and  she's  'way  off — alone  now.  She  loves 
Davey  even  if  she  hasn't  seen  him." 

"I'll  tell  her  gently,  Polly." 

And  then  Grey  mounted  and  rode  away.  He 
noticed,  as  he  never  had  before,  how  rough  the  trail 


UNBROKEN  LINES  181 

was.  He  determined  to  have  it  made  safe,  to  have 
the  loose  stones  removed,  the  way  widened.  "I  sup 
pose  a  tough  little  bronco  could  be  taught  to  carry 
a  child,  if  they  were  both  taken  young;  that  is,  if  the 
trail  were  made  easy,"  he  pondered  as  he  went  along. 
And  that  night  Grey  wrote  to  Glenn,  who  was  still 
in  England,  taking  a  breathing  spell.  Very  gently 
he  broke  to  her  the  hard,  hurting  fact.  Vividly  he 
described  every  detail,  for  strangely  enough  he  real 
ized  how  alone  she  would  be  when  she  read  the  words 
he  was  carefully  choosing. 

We  must  make  Davey's  world  for  him,  Glenn,  the  best  world, 
ever!  Already  I  am  fixing  you  up  for  the  little  chap.  You  are 
going  to  be  the  fairy  god-mother — slipping  in  when  most  wanted, 
bringing  what  everyone  else  forgot;  in  short,  putting  the  finish 
ing  touches  on. 

Then  I  am  going  to  start,  at  once,  an  experimental  school  for 
blind  children — very  young  ones.  When  Davey  is  old  enough 
he  shall  go  to  his  own  school  and  share  whatever  there  is  to  share  in 
his  particular  line. 

There  was  a  little  more  about  Davey  and  then 
Grey  put  the  question  that  lay  in  all  their  hearts. 

And  when,  young  woman  of  the  gay  feathers,  are  you  coming 
back  to  us?  Your  father  rather  banks  on  your  birthday,  but 
you  can  hardly  get  here  by  October  unless  you  take  to  those  wings 
boastfully  referred  to  on  your  wedding  day. 

Couldn't  you  manage  to  come  and  get  snow-bound  as — some 
one  else  did,  once?  It  seems  eternities  ago,  but  it  was  glorious 
enough  to  remember. 

With  every  word  Grey's  heart  grew  heavier.  His 
effort  for  Glenn  taxed  his  enforced  cheerfulness. 


182  UNBROKEN  LINES 

The  letter  reached  England  when  the  autumn 
weather  was  anything  but  inspiring.  Carrington 
brought  it  in  with  his  own  mail  which  had  been  more 
upsetting  than  usual.  He  was  inwardly  cursing 
Thompson  for  lack  of  firmness  with  the  "hands." 
Carrington  never  thought  of  his  factory  workers 
otherwise  than  as  "hands."  Hands  of  the  machin 
ery;  never  minds,  or  souls — hardly  even  bodies. 

It  was  costing  a  great  deal  more  to  live,  since  Glenn 
had  been  annexed.  The  cutting  and  polishing  were 
expensive.  Already  Carrington  was  arranging  to 
"set"  his  new  jewel  in  the  Massachusetts  home. 
That  would  lessen  the  strain  somewhat,  and  it  was 
about  time  to  settle  down  and  live. 

At  that  point  Glenn  across  the  hearth,  cried 
softly:  "Oh!  oh .!  little  Davey." 

"Who  the  devil  is — Davey?"  Carrington  looked 
up.  His  flare  of  passion  was  dying  down  but  it  still 
had  heat  and  glow  when  it  touched  upon  Glenn.  "Is 
that  a  letter  from  Mac,  Glenn?  When  in  thunder 
is  he  going  to  get  back  into  harness?" 

"Little  Davey  is  blind,  Dick— blind!"  Glenn 
was  crying.  Her  tears  never  disfigured  her — they 
rolled  gently  down  her  face  and  left  no  stain. 

"Davey,  Davey?     Is  he  one  of  the  dogs?" 

"He's  Polly's  little  baby— Polly's  and  Sam's!" 
A  pain  shot  through  Glenn's  heart. 

"The  deuce  he  is! — and  he's  blind?  That  is  hard 
luck.  But  don't  cry,  dear."  Carrington  came  over 
and  put  his  arms  about  Glenn;  his  touch  and  hers 
were  still  electrical. 

"  Dickie  dear,  couldn't  we  go — back — home  ?  I've 
seen  all  the  pictures  in  the  world,  and  now  I'm  just 


UNBROKEN  LINES  183 

a  small  bit  tired.     I'd  like  to  cuddle  down  and  read 
the  writing  under  the  pictures  and — and  think  them 


out." 


" Funny  little  wife-thing!  But  we  are  going  home, 
darling." 

"Oh!  Dick.  But  we  couldn't  get  there  by  Oc 
tober — could  we  ? " 

"Hardly.  I  must  leave  things  trim  here.  I'd  like 
to  run  over  to  Paris  before  we  sail.  You  ought  to 
have  the  last  word  in  gowns  and  hats.  I  want  you 
to  load  up." 

"Why,  Dick,  I'm  simply  buried  in  clothes.  They 
weigh  me  down.  The  only  thing  in  the  way  of 
clothes  that  I  want,  Dickie,  is  my  old,  patchy 
trousers!" 

"Good  heavens,  child!" 

"That's  all  I  would  really  need — at  home,  Dick." 

Carrington  pictured  Glenn  in  trousers  moving 
about  the  old  Carrington  place  in  Far  Hills;  he  never 
admitted  the  Lodge  in  the  "home"  category. 

"Lord ! "  he  half  groaned.  He  wasn't  any  too  sure 
about  Glenn  in  the  correctest  things  that  Paris  could 
evolve.  She  was  startling  at  the  best.  She  might 
take  the  Massachusetts  breath  by  her  grandeur,  but 
the  real  kernel  of  her  somehow  had  eluded  the  cut 
ting  and  polishing.  She  had  a  transient  effect — a 
suggestion  of  not  belonging  where  he  placed  her. 

"Dick,  dear,  please  sit  down  in  that  big  chair." 
Carrington  obeyed.  Glenn  was  luring  him  from 
the  anger  he  felt  against  Thompson,  even  from  his 
critical  regard  of  herself.  "That's  a  good  boy.  Now 
hold  me  close  against  your  blessed  heart;  so!"  She 
was  in  his  arms,  her  slim,  girlish  form  clinging  close. 


184  UNBROKEN  LINES 

"I'm  going  to  tell  you  a  great  secret,  Dick.  It 
will  explain  why  I  want  to  go — home."  In  the  still 
ness  the  cannel  coal  on  the  hearth  fell  apart,  showing 
the  blood-red  heart  of  the  fire.  "I  want — the  snow- 
white  hills,  and  the  quietness,  and  Daddy.  It  will 
be  April  when  our  baby  comes,  Dick,  and  often 
April  is  wonderful  on  the  top  of  things.  I  would 
like — my  baby  to  be  born  where  I  was  born,  in  the 
room  where  I  came  to  Daddy — and  you,  dear." 

Carrington's  arms  relaxed.  He  could  not  speak. 
But  through  his  surprised  thoughts  ran  a  new  strain — 
an  old,  old  imperious  call.  The  woman  in  his  arms 
no  longer  was  the  object  of  his  love  and  passion.  She 
had  become  an  austere  creature — the  mother  of  his 
race!  He  didn't  care  for  children — he  was  not  filled 
with  joy  now — but  he  was  filled  with  pride,  and  a 
new  purpose. 

He  kissed  the  face  resting  on  his  breast — kissed 
it  as  a  patriarch  of  old  might  have. 

"What's  the  matter,  Dick?  Aren't  you  crazy- 
glad?" 

"I'm — I'm  very  proud." 

"And  so  you  see — why  I  want — home?" 

"My  darling;  you  are  to  leave  everything  to  me. 
We  will  stay  right  here!  I  would  not  risk  your 
precious  life,  now,  to  any  chance  of  accident." 

"Stay    here?     Not — go    home?"     Glenn    gasped. 

"Do  you  love  me,  dearest  ?"  Carrington  asked. 

"Oh!  yes." 

"Then  give  yourself  absolutely  into  my  keeping." 

"Why  I — I  cannot,  Dick — not  absolutely." 

"You  must!" 

"I — cannot."     The  first  spark  glinted  off  as  steel 


UNBROKEN  LINES  185 

struck  steel.  "I — I  wouldn't  be  worthy  of  being  our 
little  baby's  mother  if  I  did  that,  Dick.  Just  having 
one  father  and  one  mother  seems  hardly  enough, 
when  I  think  of — of  the  darling,  but  anyway  it  must 
have  both  of  us — and  as  both  as  we  can  make  our 
selves." 

This  whimsical  opposition  had  the  effect  of  annoy 
ing  Carrington. 

"I  repeat,  Glenn,  you  must  leave  everything  to 
me!"  he  said. 

"And  I — repeat"  (Glenn  was  oblivious  of  the 
change  in  her  husband) — "that  I  cannot;  and  that 
I  should  feel  unworthy  if  I  could." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

GLENN  grew  very  white  and  still  as  the  winter 
passed.  After  accepting  the  exile  that  Car- 
rington  insisted  upon,  she  never  referred  to  it. 

Science,  and  little  else,  stalked  through  her  long 
days.  She  was  considered — impersonally,  largely, 
but  she  was  considered — until  her  individuality  al 
most  perished.  She  was  amused — scientifically. 
Carrington  became  her  warder  and  keeper — carrying 
out  the  commands  of  Science  while  Science  was  off 
duty.  But  still  she  grew  more  white  and  delicately 
fragile. 

Her  own  appearance  interested  her  and  her  quaint 
humour  flashed  forth  to  Carrington. 

"Can  this  be  I?  Look  at  my  arms,  Dick — just 
strings.  And  my  legs — I'm  afraid  I  couldn't  dance 
on  the  Twin  bridge  now." 

"I  should  hope  not,  my  precious!" 

"Dick  dear,  if  I  hadn't  danced  that  day,  last  June, 
perhaps — who  knows? — I  might  not  have  been — 
here." 

"Are  you  sorry,  beloved  ? " 

"Sorry?  Sorry  that  Love  just  caught  me,  when 
something,  not  my  body,  toppled  over?  I  should 
think  not !  When  you  caught  me,  Dick,  you  opened 
life  to  me." 

"  But  you  are  crying,  Glenn." 

"Well,  Dickie,  you  see  I'm  not  used  to — to  having 

186 


UNBROKEN  LINES  187 

babies.  I  feel  sort  of — queer.  After  the  baby  comes, 
Dick;  then  may  we  go  home,  please?  " 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'home',  Glenn?" 

"Why,  the  Lodge,  dear." 

"Your  home,  my  dearest,  is  Far  Hills.  When  you 
are  able  to  travel  I  must  take  you  there.  After 
ward — well,  afterward,  we  will  see." 

"Far  Hills!  Doesn't  it  sound  awfully  distant, 
Dick?  It — it  sounds  as  if  I  never  could  reach  it,  no 
matter  how  hard  I  try." 

"I  should  like  my — son"  (the  word  slipped  from 
Carrington  unheeded)  "to  feel  that  Far  Hills  was 
his  home." 

Glenn's  eyelid  twinkled.     It  rarely  did  now. 

u  Suppose  such  an  awful  thing  as  a  daughter  hap 
pened  to  you,  Dick;  what  then?  Would  you  let  the 
poor  little  mistake  go  to  the  Lodge?  Daddy  is  used 
to — to  girls.  He  wouldn't  mind."  Then,  quite 
seriously:  "I'd  like  our  little  child,  dear,  to  play 
with  Davey.  Mac  says  he  is  wonderful." 

"Mac  is  still  in  the  mountains?"  Carrington 
frowned. 

"Yes,  but  he's  going  down.  He  says  he's  going 
to  his  place,  wherever  that  is,  for  Christmas.  Polly 
and  Sam  and  Davey  are  going  to  the  Lodge  to  stay 
with  Daddy.  Mac  has  a  new  book  coming  out." 

"Has  he?" 

Grey's  books  were  all  drivel  to  Carrington. 

"Yes.     He's  named  it:  The  Trail  Called  Easy5." 

"Has,  eh?  He'd  better  write  another  and  call  it: 
The  Trail  Made  Difficult'.  Mac  always  took  the 
easy  trail." 

"Why,  Dick;  you  sound  most  un-Dickish." 


1 88  UNBROKEN  LINES 

This  brought  Carrington  to  his  senses.  Science 
had  lain  down  laws  regarding  mental  and  physical 
environment. 

England  smiled  early  that  year.  April  was  quite 
June-like.  Science  did  its  best  for  Glenn,  but  it  had 
largely  disregarded  Nature,  and,  single  handed,  it 
had  a  bad  time  of  it. 

There  were  black  hours,  when  the  door  of  life 
seemed  closed  for  ever  to  the  girl  in  the  dim,  quiet 
room.  At  such  times  her  spirit — still  held  by  a  loose 
chain — wandered  where  neither  Science  nor  pride 
of  family  awed  it.  It  mounted  higher  and  higher; 
it  sang  gleefully;  it  called  the  dear,  old  names  and 
trod  the  familiar  trails. 

Then  it  was  drawn  back!  Back  to  torture  and 
fear.  Again,  when  it  was  given  rein,  it  fled  to  the 
one  that  had  always  left  it  free. 

"  Daddy !     Daddy !     I  cannot  find  the  way ! " 

Presently  the  light  of  Glenn's  star  lent  a  ray  to 
guide  her  back — this  time  to  peace  and  safety. 

"Here  is  your  little  girl,  Mrs.  Carrington." 

It  was  decreed,  by  Science,  that  a  well-trained 
nurse,  not  Carrington,  should  give  to  Glenn  her  child. 

"A — a  girl!"  The  announcement  was  startling. 
"Why — why — it  was  to  have  been  a  boy,  you  know!" 

Then  because  Glenn  was  too  weak  to  cry,  she 
laughed;  laughed  rather  terribly,  too,  and  people 
came  quickly.  And  then  she  slept — slept  so  deeply 
that  she  did  not  dream. 

The  baby — Constance  they  called  her,  that  being 
Carrington's  mother's  name — took  her  entrance  into 
the  world  very  calmly.  She  rarely  cried,  and  rarely, 


UNBROKEN  LINES  189 

so  the  nurse  said,  slept.  She  lay  and  looked  about; 
first  blankly,  then,  very  soon,  with  a  serene  air  of 
polite  interest.  She  amused  Glenn  very  much  when, 
at  the  end  of  two  danger-filled  months,  she  emerged, 
white,  haggard,  and  deplorably  thin,  to  face  life  with 
her  child. 

She  seemed  not  to  be  the  old  Glenn  at  all.  It  was 
as  if,  in  the  Shadow,  she  had  left  her  buoyant,  strong 
self  and  came  forth  a  wan  woman  with  only  one  strong 
passion — love  for  her  baby!  Her  attitude  astounded 
and  dismayed  Carrington.  She  was  not  exactly  in 
different  to  him,  but  she  was  distant.  Tender  she 
was,  and  often  playful,  but — detached. 

Once  he  talked  to  her  of  her  altered  manner. 

"Why,  Dick,  dear,  surely  you  know  how  I  love 
you!  You  gave  me  love  and  then — my  child.  You 
are  the  holiest  thing  in  the  world  to  me." 

"I'm  not  desirous  of  being  a  holy  thing  to  you," 
Carrington  returned,  wondering  how  such  a  thin, 
wraith-like  creature  could  still  be  so  lovely.  "I 
want  you  as  you  were,  my  darling." 

"Ah,  Dick,  is  a  woman  ever  the  same?  The  way 
was  so  far  and  dark,  it  took  so  long  to  get  back.  Once, 
when  I  seemed  terribly  alone,  words  came;  they 
seemed  to  ask  me  whether  I — I  wanted  to  return? 
Then  I  heard  the  baby  cry  and — I  had  to!" 

"Only  for  the  child,  Glenn?"  Carrington  looked 
hurt.  The  maternal  instinct  was  not  appealing  to 
him;  it  had  a  plebeian  aspect  that  was  repelling. 

"It  seemed  so  then,  dear  old  Dick.  I  felt  re 
sponsible  for  it.  I  think  women  get  very  near  to 
God  when  their  babies  come,  don't  you?  You  see, 
they  have  to  reach  up,  when  He  leans  down  to  them." 


190  UNBROKEN  LINES 

"I  know  you  nearly  died,  my  dear  one,  so  nearly 
that  I  would  not  go  through  the  agony  again." 

"Why,  I  would,  Dick.  Just  for  the  feeling  of  the 
baby  hands — after!  Put  the  baby  close,  Dick.  It 
can  see,  you  are  sure?" 

"It  can  see  all  right,  and  hear.  I  guess  she's  all 
that  one  could  expect."  Carrington  regarded  his 
daughter  critically. 

"I  don't  think  she's  very  pretty" — Glenn  whis 
pered  this  disloyalty — "I  don't  know  much  about 
babies,  but  Constance  looks  too — too  finished.  Mac 
says  Davey  has  an  adorable  smudge  for  a  nose,  and 
dimples,  and  a  mouth  like  a  strawberry,  and  hair  like 
the  fluff  on  a  duckling's  breast;  you  just  naturally 
call  him  Davey — not  David.  Why,  Dick,  lying 
here  alone  with  Constance,  I've  tried  to  call  her 
Connie;  and  I  don't  dare!  Look  at  her  nose;  I 
declare  it's  like  yours  and  just  as  good!  What 
hair  she  has  is  dark  and — and  shiny.  Her  mouth 
has  a  firm  look,  and  I  bet  she's  going  to  have  a  strong 
character." 

"You're  a  bit  ridiculous,  Glenn  darling.  Con 
stance  is  a  real  Carrington.  She  looks  like  one  of  my 
grandfathers;  the  resemblance  is  striking,  even  to 
me." 

"Does  she,  Dick?  Isn't  that  awful?  A  two- 
month-old  baby  looking  like  an  old  gentleman.  Was 
it  the  one  who  went  to  Congress — isn't  that  where 
you  said  he  went?" 

"Yes,  Glenn."  But  Carrington  did  not  laugh — 
he  was  gazing  again  rather  intently  at  his  daughter. 
She  was  an  extremely  ancient  and  severe-looking  in 
fant  and  he  was  planning  a  course  of  action  that 


UNBROKEN  LINES  191 

would  place  the  child  in  safe  and  competent  care 
while,  at  the  same  time,  detaching  her  from  her 
mother.  It  would  never  do  to  have  Glenn,  before 
she  was  twenty,  becoming — maternal!  A  young 
mother,  correctly  placed,  was  interesting;  a  baby, 
as  a  background,  emphasized  youth,  but  a  baby  in 
arms  was  unmentionable!  and  Glenn  showed  distinct 
symptoms  of  maternalism. 

But  little  Constance  Carrington  soon  took  the 
middle  of  the  stage  in  a  most  alarming  and  un 
looked-for  manner.  Delicate  from  her  birth,  she 
very  soon  showed  symptoms  that  demanded  the  best 
surgical  care  and  nursing.  During  those  days  when 
the  little  life  wavered  faintly  poor  Glenn  thought  of 
Polly  and  her  Davey.  With  heart-sick  longing  she 
yearned  for  the  hills,  for  her  father,  for  Polly,  and 
for  Mac.  Sometimes  she  thought  that  if  she  could 
carry  her  baby  to  the  mountains  and  lift  her  up  to 
the  sunlight  and  the  cool  sweet  air  a  miracle  might  be 
performed. 

Once  she  voiced  this  craving  and  belief  to  Carring 
ton,  but  he  set  it  aside  rather  impatiently.  His  life 
was  disordered  and  confused.  He  wanted  to  get 
back  to  America,  but  certain  treatment,  which 
gave  promise  for  Constance,  must  be  continued  and 
Glenn  was  in  no  fit  condition  for  a  long  journey, 
anyway. 

So  for  four  years  they  remained  abroad — Carring 
ton  going  home  twice  during  that  time  to  insist  upon 
more  speed  in  the  business. 

"Good  God!"  he  said  to  Thompson  "have  you  any 
idea  what  it  costs  me  to  live,  these  days  ?  Of  course 
I  want  you  to  obey  laws" — Thompson  had  insinuated 


192  UNBROKEN  LINES 

that  perhaps  he  did  not — "haven't  I  always  obeyed 
laws?  Aren't  the  shops  and  factories  abreast  of  the 
times?" 

"About."  Thompson  was  a  one-word  man,  when 
two  words  might  have  been  used  by  others. 

"Well — what  then?  I  tell  you,  Thompson,  I  do 
not  mean  to  cater  to  this  rabble.  When  one  con 
siders  what  they  came  from!  Good  Lord!  what  do 
they  expect  ?  They  never  lived  so  well  in  their  lives 
before.  If  they  don't  like  it — why  don't  they  go 
back;  why  do  they  stay?" 

"American  ideals."     Thompson  thrust  in. 

"American  nothing!  It's  American  peril  that  they 
want  to  be."  Carrington  was  furious. 

"Bad  housing,"  Thompson  muttered;  "that's  one 
of  their  complaints." 

"Now  see  here,  Thompson;  my  business  is  my 
business.  I  pay  regulation  wages,  keep  to  the  time 
schedule;  but  I  don't  intend  to  mix  up  in  their  domes 
tic  affairs.  I  own  the  property?  What  if  I  do?  I 
will  not  discuss  the  matter  along  this  line,  and  I'm 
not  responsible  for  economic  conditions!  What  I've 
come  all  the  way  from  England  for  is  to — speed  you 
up.  Put  on  steam,  Thompson.  It  will  mean  a  cou 
ple  of  thousand  more  to  you." 

And  then  Carrington  went  back  to  England  for  a 
year  or  so  more. 

It  was  the  winter  when  little  Constance  Carrington 
was  three  and  giving  hopes  of  staying  on,  that  Grey 
came  down  from  the  heights,  leaving  Sam,  Polly, 
and  Davey  at  the  Lodge.  He  wanted  to  see  how  his 
"place"  was  getting  on.  He  had  deferred  his  trip 


UNBROKEN  LINES  193 

over  and  over  again.     Beverly  Train  had  urged  it 
now.     She  had  written: 

You're  too  young,  Mac,  to  become  a  hermit;  your  books  are 
too  popular.  Your  play  is  being  rehearsed;  the  dust  on  your 
furniture  is  too  deep.  People  have  almost  forgotten  poor  Kath 
leen,  and  Robert  Maurey  has  behaved  himself  so  detestably 
lately  that  folks  are  beginning  to  wonder  whether  they  did  not 
stone  the  wrong  dog.  Queer,  isn't  it — how  they  throw  stones 
first  and  do  their  thinking  afterward? 

I'm  so  afraid  of  being  ashamed  of  having  thrown  stones,  that 
I  hold  back  until  it  is  time  for  the  placing  of  wreaths. 

But  most  of  all,  old  Mac,  I  want  to  see  you.  I  used  to  think 
there  was  not  enough  of  me  for  Time  to  waste  in  making  me  old, 
but  I  suppose  I  am  not  exempt,  and  once  the  process  is  begun, 
it  will  soon  be  finished — owing  to  my  brevity. 

And  so  Grey  swung  back  to  his  old  haunts.  He 
was  big  and  muscular  and  tanned.  His  eyes  were 
clear  and  undaunted,  he  entered  the  haunted  places 
of  his  past  with  quickened  pulses,  but  a  clean  con 
science. 

The  dust  in  his  old  rooms  was  a  fiction  of  Beverly 
Train's  brain;  some  one  had  kept  them  immaculate. 
His  publishers  were  cordial;  his  friends — those  he 
chanced  upon,  accidentally — glad  to  see  him. 

"You  look  made  over,"  one  or  two  remarked. 

"I  have  been,"  Grey  returned.  "I've  been 
where  I  could  get  all  the  air  I  wanted." 

But  no  man  could  return,  after  nearly  four  years, 
and  not  feel  strange  in  the  once-familiar  environment. 
It  was  as  if  he  were  trying  to  find  land-marks  for  a 
friend — the  friend  being  his  old  self.  He  seemed  to 
be  going  about  with  a  map  and  notes  of  instruction. 
The  person  he  now  was,  had  no  particular  curiosity, 
but  he  owed  it  to  what  he  once  had  been. 


i94  UNBROKEN  LINES 

He  went  where  he  had  lived  so  long,  to  his  grand 
mother's  old  house  in  the  Back  Bay;  a  cheerful  family 
of  youngsters  was  now  living  there.  The  narrow, 
grim  little  street  amused  him;  how  had  he  ever 
found  it  anything  but  cramping?  Then  he  recalled 
that  it  had  opened  into  the  first  love  he  had  ever 
known  and  he  remembered  the  surprising  view  of 
garden  and  river  from  the  back  windows ! 

In  his  own  small  apartment  he  feared  that  he 
might  find  Kathleen  Maurey,  but  the  fear  proved 
groundless;  she  did  not  seem  to  have  any  part  in  the 
rooms — she  had  come  and  gone,  as  she  had  from  his 
life— a  brief  episode  of  the  years  when  he  was  finding 
himself. 

For  a  few  days  Grey  refrained  from  seeing  Beverly 
Train — did  not  even  telephone  or  write,  although  he 
had  sent  word  from  Denver  that  he  was  on  his  way 
eastward.  He  wanted  to  do  his  errand — fulfil  his 
duty  to  his  old  self  before  he  went  to  the  one  friend 
who,  of  all  others,  seemed  nearest  and  closest  to  him, 
most  like  his  own. 

At  last,  one  balmy  day,  he  shed  the  dust  of  his  past 
from  him,  got  into  some  new  and  good-looking 
clothes,  and  started  out  for  Beverly  Train's  out-of- 
town  house.  This  was  about  thirty  miles  from  Bos 
ton  and  on  the  broad  highway.  It  was  an  old,  colo 
nial  house  set  in  wide  lawns,  and  behind  it  were 
acres  and  acres  of  cultivated  farm  land.  It  was 
called  "On  the  Way"  and  indeed  it  was  frankly 
that;  for,  coming  or  going,  one  was  almost  sure  to  pass 
it  if  he  journeyed  through  Massachusetts. 

Beverly  had  inherited  the  place  from  her  father, 
Judge  Train.  It  had  come  to  her  with  his  blessing, 


UNBROKEN  LINES  195 

as  had  her  orderly,  well-balanced,  and  judicial  mind. 
The  little,  cramped  body  was  merely  the  casket — a 
frail  one,  at  best — to  hold  the  big  brain  and  the  loving 
heart. 

The  old  judge,  when  about  to  depart  from  this 
life,  had  remarked,  casually,  to  this  daughter:  "I 
know  that  you  will  carry  on  all  my  hopes  for  the 
place;  it  will  give  you  something  to  do.  When  you 
are  through  with  it,  leave  it  to  some  one — or  to  some 
organization — that  will  continue  along  our  lines. 
I'd  like  it  always  to  be  on  the  way  to  something." 

To  that  end,  Beverly  had  devoted  her  lonely  years 
and  her  clear  thought.  Trades  were  taught  on  her 
land;  farming,  weaving,  and — in  small  cottages — 
up-to-date  home-making.  Little  groups  of  girls 
and  boys  were  gathered  from  the  most  neglected  by 
ways  of  life  and  started  on  the  way.  The  green 
houses,  the  lawns,  the  wooded  parts  of  the  estate, 
gave  evidence  of  the  skill  of  the  "home  products" 
as  Beverly  called  them.  The  scheme  was  not  charity 
in  any  sense;  largely  it  paid  for  itself  in  service  and 
production.  And  through  it  all,  pervading  it  all, 
were  the  heart  and  the  brain  of  the  tiny  creature  in 
the  long,  wheel-chair.  She  was  the  spirit  of  the 
place. 

When  Grey  entered  "On  the  Way,"  he  was  directed 
to  the  conservatory  by  a  smiling  little  maid  who,  a 
few  years  before,  had  started  out  on  the  wrong  way, 
but  had  been  caught  in  time. 

"Miss  Beverly  ordered  that  when  you  came,  sir, 
you  should  just  walk  in  and  find  her." 

And  Grey  knew  where  to  go,  The  long  chair  was 
in  the  bright  room  where  rare  flowers  bloomed  and 


196  UNBROKEN  LINES 

birds  sang.  It  was  late  afternoon  and  the  western 
windows  let  in  the  last  rays  of  sunshine. 

The  head  against  the  back  of  the  couch-chair,  was 
crowned  with  silver  hair,  cut  short  and  combed  back 
from  the  broad,  fine  brow.  The  face  was  strong  and 
delicately  chiselled;  the  body,  under  the  gay-coloured 
rug,  like  that  of  a  child  of  twelve! 

Grey,  standing  by  the  entrance,  looked  at  the  pa 
thetic  figure.  His  eyes  dimmed;  his  throat  con 
tracted;  he  saw  only  the  beauty  of  the  spirit  that  was 
caught  and  held  in  the  frail  shell.  Then  he  heard 
Beverly  speak: 

"Is  that  you,  Mac  Grey?     I  seem  to  feel  you." 

Grey  went  forward  and  touched  his  lips  to  the 
smooth  forehead. 

"And  now  let  me  look  at  you,  boy!" 

Grey  stood  rigid  for  inspection. 

"It's  all  right.  You  haven't  confused  stepping 
stones  with  stumbling  blocks.  It  was  hard  climbing 
though,  eh?" 

"  Part  of  the  way,  yes,  Beverly.     May  I  sit  down  ? " 

"There's  your  chair.  It's  been  close  to  me  ever 
since  I  heard  that  you  were  coming.  And  now  Mac, 
tell  me  everything." 

Grey  had  photographs — they  illustrated  his  talk — 
pictures  of  the  great  peaks,  the  lonely  trails,  the 
isolated  cabins,  the  Lodge,  even  Connor's.  Then 
came  the  people:  Arnold,  Sam,  Polly,  and  the  wonder 
ful  face  of  Davey. 

"Poor,  little  groping  soul,"  said  Beverly,  holding 
the  picture  in  a  better  light.  "I  must  get  into  touch 
with  the  boy,  Mac.  He  and  I  have  something  to  say 
to  each  other.  It  isn't  easy  to  hold  all  the  longings 


UNBROKEN  LINES  197 

and  the  passion  of  life  while  you're  on  a  leash,  but 
it's  possible  to  cut  quite  a  caper  in  the  limitations — 
if  you  know  how." 

"Yes;  you  must  see  Davey.  And,  Beverly,  one 
of  the  things  I  came  for  was  to  carry  you  back  to  the 
heights.  I  want  you  to  breathe  that  air,  to  see  those 
people." 

"I've  thought  of  that,  too,  Mac.  I  am  going, 
later,  to  talk  to  you  about  building  a  little  cabin  for 
me,  near  yours.  I  rather  believe  you'll  spend  a  good 
deal  of  your  future  among  the  hills.  I  would  like  to  be 
within  ear-shot,  and  I  think  I  could  make  the  journey 
— with  your  help. 

"Haven't  you  any  pictures  of  Dick  Carrington's 
wife?" 

So  suddenly  did  Beverly  ask  this  question  that 
Grey  shrank  back  and  all  his  barriers  crumbled  be 
fore  the  glance  of  the  clear,  blue  eyes. 

"No,  Beverly." 

"Mac,  why  didn't  you  fall  in  love  with  that  girl?" 

"I— did.     Of  course!" 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  her  so?" 

"You  know  how  it  is  with  me  Beverly — always 
dreams!  dreams!  dreams!  At  first  I  felt  that  I 
wasn't  good  enough,  and  I  had  to  adjust  that.  Then 
I  got  to  feeling  that  we  belonged  to  each  other,  and 
I  wanted  to  take  to  her  (before  I  told  her  of  my  love) 
the  cleanest  thing  I  could  in  the  way  of  pasts.  I  felt 
that  I  wanted  Kathleen  to  see  things  as  they  really 
were;  I  wanted  my  love  unshadowed — for  Glenn's 
sake.  Then  Dick  came — with  the  news.  It  rather 
knocked  me  out.  And  by  the  time  that  I  came  to  my 
senses,  Dick  had  swept  everything  before  him. 


i98  UNBROKEN  LINES 

Dreams  have  been  my  blessing  and  my  curse,  Beverly 
I  always  wake  up  a  bit  too  late." 

Beverly  Train  was  watching  Grey.  Her  small, 
cool  hand  reached  out  and  took  his. 

"It's  queer  how  a  man  like  Dick  can  flare  up  once 
in  a  lifetime,  isn't  it,  Mac?  All  the  best  of  him 
caught  fire.  It  will  soon  burn  out,  but  while  it  lasts 
it  will  warm  the  best  in  that  girl  that  he  has  married." 

"I  suppose  so,  Beverly.  But  Dick's  a  good  fellow; 
I  couldn't  have  stood  it  if  he  hadn't  been.  He  has 
never  bungled  his  life.  It  was  a  clean,  decent  thing 
he  offered  Glenn." 

At  this  Beverly's  eyes  contracted,  her  smooth  brow 
wrinkled  from  deep  emotion. 

"It  was  a  hard  thing  he  offered — a  thing  that  noth 
ing  has  ever  got  through.  Mac,  did  you  ever  spill 
alcohol  on  marble  and  set  it  on  fire?" 

"No,  Beverly." 

"Well,  it  burns  itself  up;  it's  hot  and  fierce,  but 
the  marble  isn't  affected  much." 

"Come,  come  Beverly,  aren't  you  a  bit  rough  on 
Dick?" 

"I  don't  think  so.  Dick,  to  you,  represents  all 
of  the  Carringtons,  but  they  have  been  a  tradition 
in  my  family.  My  father  used  to  say  that  all  his 
sharp  edges  were  worn  off  by  rubbing  against  the 
Carrington  breed.  There  was  an  old  minister  grand 
father  so  good,  Mac,  that  he  made  hell  seem  a  sanc 
tuary.  Then  the  line  ran  to  judges;  still  good — so 
good  that  every  criminal  begged  for  mercy  before 
he  was  accused,  legally.  Then  they  took  to  business; 
still  good !  Dick's  good ! — he's  within  all  the  religion 
and  law  of  his  ancestors — but  his  factory  people  are 


UNBROKEN  LINES  199 

always  striking!  They  just  naturally  balk  at  his 
goodness." 

Grey  laughed.  Beverly  was  a  tonic  to  him.  She 
was  setting  his  confusion  in  order,  voicing  his  thoughts. 

"I  suppose,  owing  to  my  being  a  prisoner,  Mac," 
the  low,  sweet  voice  flowed  on,  "I  have  time  to  de 
velop  an  extra  sense  or  two.  Beside  the  people  that 
come  to  see  me  there  stand  dim  shades  of  other 
people,  and  I  hear  words — words  meant  for  my  under 
standing.  I  have  to  have  explanations  in  lieu  of  ex 
perience,  you  see.  Sometimes  the  ghostly  Shades 
frighten  me.  With  Dick  Carrington  I  always  see 
his  good  ancestors  keeping  him  upright.  They  will 
not  let  him  lean  over.  I  do  Dick  the  justice  of  think 
ing  himself  madly  in  love  with  this  wild  thing  he's 
caught,  but  Mac,  his  Shades  speak  louder  than  he. 
They  cry  out  for  new  blood  to  keep  the  line  strong. 
They  point  out  the  fine  hope  of  this  mountain  girl — 
she  has  possibilities — but  no  price  that  the  Carring- 
tons  can  pay  could  buy  Glenn  Arnold ! "  A  quivering 
excitement  ran  through  the  words. 

"No,  by  heaven,  no,  Beverly!"  Grey  was  im 
pressed. 

"Mac,  dear,  I  never  saw  anything  so  pathetic  as 
the  girl  was  the  day  she  came  to  see  me.  She  was 
loaded  down  with  things  that  Carrington  had  given 
her.  She  was  like  a  child  with  her  arms  so  full  of  toys 
that  she  could  not  appreciate  them — did  not  even 
know  what  they  were.  She  was  overflowing  with 
gratitude.  Dick's  love,  she  believed,  had  given 
them  to  her;  she  could  not  know  that  it  was  his — 
pride.  Oh!  I  tell  you,  Mac,  you  cannot  live  as 
long  and  as  lonely,  as  I  have  lived,  without  seeing 


200  UNBROKEN  LINES 

beyond  the  limit  of  your  leash!  Often  the  seeing 
hurts — but  it  is  my  life;  mine!" 

"And  who  "  [Grey  was  bending  close  to  the  woman 
in  the  chair;  she  seemed  to  him  a  high  priestess]  "and 
who  stood  beside  Glenn,  Beverly,  while  she  talked 
to  you?" 

"You,  Mac  Grey!  You  were  no  Shade,  either. 
You  looked  good  bone  and  muscle*  You  love  Dick 
Carrington's  wife,  still;  and  you  must  keep  the  love, 
boy.  For,  as  there  is  hope  in  heaven,  that  child  will 
find  her  way  back  to  you ! " 

"This — this  is  scandalous,  Beverly." 

"Bare  truth  often  is,  to  folks  not  up  in  anatomy! 
But  you  and  I,  here  alone,  Mac  Grey,  can  take  our 
skeleton  out  bravely,  boy." 

"Did  Glenn  strike  you  as  unhappy,  Beverly?" 
Grey's  eyes  were  deep  and  straightforward  now.  He 
craved  all  that  he  could  get. 

"No.  She  was  dreaming.  It's  Dick's  purpose 
to  keep  her  dreaming — of  the  man  that  she  thought 
he  was.  I'm  wondering " 

"What,  Beverly?" 

"What  motherhood  has  done  for  her?" 

"Her  letters  are — all  quite  remarkable,"  said  Grey, 
slowly;  "she  lives  for  her  child.  Strange,  isn't  it, 
how  a  girl  like  Glenn  could  bear  such  a  delicate 
child?" 

"It — it  isn't  her  child,  it's  Carrington's." 

"Oh,  Beverly,  that's  hard  on  them  both.  But  in 
any  case  Glenn  is  making  it  hers." 

"She'll  never  be  able  to,  Mac.  I  have  a  strange 
feeling  about  the  baby.  It  complicates — it  can 
never  solve." 


UNBROKEN  LINES  201 

"I  shouldn't  like  to  think  that,  Beverly." 

"It's  true,  all  the  same.  See  here,  Mac,  there  are 
some  lines  that  cannot  merge.  The  Carrington 
brand,  and  Glenn's,  for  instance.  They  both  come 
straight  down  the  ages  without  a  break.  They  know 
shades  and  tones,  but  they  do  not  blend!" 

"I'm  afraid,  now,  that  you  are  getting  in  too  deep 
for  me,  Beverly!"  Grey  gave  an  uneasy  laugh.  He 
had  experienced,  before,  the  feeling  he  now  had,  when 
talking  to  Beverly  Train.  It  was  like  sitting  with 
one  verging  upon  a  trance-state. 

Beverly  did  not  heed  his  words,  but  a  rare  light 
filled  her  eyes. 

"Mac;  Glenn  Arnold  belongs  to  the  Christ  line — 
that  battered,  often  unpractical  line  that  has  in  its 
wake  the  highest  and  the  lowest — all  bearing  the  mark 
of  their  Leader  on  their  foreheads  no  matter  whether 
their  heads  be  bowed  to  the  dust  or  their  breasts 
bared  for  the  fight.  They  know  no  law  but  His  law, 
they  feel  Him  in  all  they  do.  His  law  is  Love  and 
Service." 

Grey  bent  nearer;  he  no  longer  opposed.  In 
Beverly's  flight  he  caught  the  vision. 

"And  Dick's  line,  Beverly.  What  is  his?"  he 
whispered. 

"His?  Why  his  is  the  Pontius  Pilate  line.  Law, 
law — the  law  of  man !  He  uses  it  for  a  shield  and  a 
weapon.  It  is  a  bitter,  hard,  unbending  line,  Mac; 
and  since  the  world  began  it  has  been  at  war  with  the 
other.  They  have  nothing  in  common;  nothing! 
The  first  is  for  ever  standing,  as  He  did,  before  the 
Judgment  Seat  of  the  Law;  and  the  Law  turns  Him, 
and  it,  over  to  the  mob !  Oh,  Mac,  the  heart  of  me 


202  UNBROKEN  LINES 

aches  with  the  pity  of  it  all."  Beverly  looked  up, 
her  eyes  wet  with  tears,  her  lips  quivering. 

"Beverly,  Beverly,  how  you  have  needed  to  talk!" 
Grey  said,  gently;  and  he  laid  his  face  upon  the  small 
hand  in  his  own ! 

"Yes,  boy;  and  now  that  I  see  you,  I  know  that 
you  have  needed — to  listen!" 

"That's  God's  truth,  Beverly." 

"This  Carrington  business  has  upset  us  both, 
boy." 

"Yes;  terribly." 

"When  Dick  was  home  last  he  came  to  see  me. 
He  doesn't  often  visit  me — never,  unless  he  wants  me 
to  do  something  for  him.  I  did  not  like  the  look  in 
his  eyes.  He  is  beginning  to  do  his  duty  by  his  wife. 
Mac,  when  a  Carrington  takes  to  duty,  the  weak  had 
better  take  to  the  hills!  He  is  bringing  his — his 
family  home.  He  wants  me  to  help  him  do  his  duty 
— stand  by  him,  so  to  speak.  His  family  and  mine 
live  too  near — have  lived  too  near  for  generations — 
to  be  secure  unless  we  live  in  peace.  But  Mac,  do 
you  think  that  wife  of  Dick's  is  going  to  have  her 
flame  kept  alive  by  Duty?" 

"No!" 

"Of  course  not!  But  she's  given  him  a  sickly  girl 
when  his  ancestral  pride  and  hope  expected  better 
things.  She  has  failed  him — the  injury  has  cut  deep. 
Duty  comes  to  the  fore — not  loving  sympathy." 

"Poor  little  Glenn!"  moaned  Grey,  burying  his 
face  in  his  hands. 

"I'm  not  so  sure,  about  her  poverty,  Mac.  If 
she's  only  being  fed  on  chaff,  the  sooner  she  knows 
it  the  better." 


UNBROKEN  LINES  203 

"Any  disgrace  would  kill  her,  Beverly." 

"Disgrace?  Yes,  I  think  it  would.  She'd  fly  it 
as  she  would  a  plague;  but  she  would  call  things  by 
their  right  names,  boy!  She  would  know  disgrace 
when  she  saw  it,  without  Carrington's  line  telling  her. 
You  could  not  pass  a  counterfeit  off  on  her." 

"No,  I  don't  think  you  could."  Grey  raised  his 
face;  there  was  relief  in  it,  though  from  what  he  was 
drawing  comfort  he  could  not  tell. 

"Somehow  all  this  talk  doesn't  seem  exactly  right, 
Beverly,  but  it  gives  me  strength  I  sorely  needed." 

"We  all  sense  truth  at  times,  Mac;  not  seeing  it 
should  not  prevent  us  from  being  ready.  I  know  the 
Carringtons,  root  and  branch,  and  no  one  of  them 
ever  did  a  madder  thing  than  Dick  has  done.  He 
has  attempted  the  impossible!  To  a  Carrington 
that  means — an  ugly  fight." 

"This  should  alarm  us,  Beverly,"  said  Grey  as  he 
rose,  slowly. 

"No,  it  should  merely  prepare  us.  In  a  fight, 
numbers  count;  quick  vision  counts;  love  counts. 
They  can  sometimes  outwit  the  law." 


CHAPTER  XV 

GREY  spent   six    months    among   his    former 
haunts.     He  enjoyed  them,  too.     It  was  a 
thing   not   to   be   despised — this   moderate, 
well-earned,  fame  of  his.     He  went  to  see  his  play. 
Beverly  Train  was  with  him;  they  had  a  box  to  them 
selves  and  sat  well  back  in  the  shadow.     Beverly 
cried  a  little  and  Grey  held  her  hand;  he  was  thankful 
that  so  warm  and  kind  a  hand  was  his  to  hold.     They 
celebrated  afterward  in  Grey's  room.     Beverly  was 
giddily  indifferent  to  her  own  appearance. 

"Cover  up  my  legs,  Mac,  and  let  people  beautify  my 
head.  Since  you  have  no  one  else  to  do  it  for  you, 
I'm  going  to  see  that  you  are  properly  chaperoned." 

And  how  she  talked  and  laughed  and  shone.  How 
charmed  the  chosen  few,  men  and  women,  were  with 
her.  It  was  a  gala  night,  one  to  which  Beverly  al 
ways  looked  back  upon  as  her  climax. 

"It  will  always  be  to  me,  Mac,"  she  said,  "the 
point  that  marked  the  Great  Divide." 

"Nonsense,  Beverly!"  Grey  laughingly  chided. 
"It  marks — an  open  door." 

"Perhaps.  But  I  think  I  ought  to  tell  you  that, 
in  case  anything  should  happen,  I've  left  everything 
to  you."  She  spoke  lightly,  as  her  father  had  spoken 
before  her,  when  he  was  about  to  leave  life. 

Grey  stiffened  at  her  words.  Beverly,  watching 
him,  laughed  him  to  scorn. 

204 


UNBROKEN  LINES  205 

"Some  one  has  to  take  the  work,"  she  said,  kindly; 
"it  really  cannot  be  left  to  itself.  You're  not  a 
shirker,  boy,  and  you  are  a  good  friend.  You  are  not 
without  experience,  either.  I  happen  to  know  about 
that  school  of  yours  for  blind  children,  and  that 
home-place  for  old,  and  often  forgotten,  women!" 

"The  one  is  Grandmother's  idea,  Beverly." 

"Come,  come,  Mac!" 

"At  least  it  is  for  her.  The  other  one  is  for  Davey. 
I'm  trying  experiments  there;  preparing  for  the  day 
when  Davey  will  need  all  that  he  can  have.  The 
way  is  deucedly  rough  for  the  blind  kids,  Beverly, 
unless  some  one  clears  the  trail." 

"Yes,  I  know.  And  isn't  it  all  fun,  Mac?  This 
chance  of  being  hands  and  feet  for  God  Almighty? 
After  all,  ours  are  all  that  He  has  to  use  in  this  world. 
I  wish  you  had  more  humour,  boy.  You  ought  to 
get  some  amusement  out  of  the  game." 

They  both  laughed  at  this  point.  Then  Beverly 
went  seriously  on. 

"Now  I  don't  want  'On  the  Way'  ever  really  to 
arrive;  I'd  like  to  look  back  at  it  from  wherever  I  may 
chance  to  be — and  see  it  always — what  its  name  im 
plies.  Some  one  with  an  imagination  would  have 
to  be  at  the  head.  Sitting  all  these  years  in  my  chair, 
I've  made  this  old  place — my  story.  Boy;  will  you 
make  it— what  shall  we  call  it? — a  continued  story?" 

"Beverly;  I'm  not — up  to  it!" 

"That's  your  trouble,  Mac.  You've  always  made 
your  mistakes  by  looking  at  yourself  at  the  wrong 
moment!  Lord,  boy,  you  don't  matter.  None  of 
us  do.  Here's  the  world's  work;  go  to  it— give 
it  a  helping  hand,  if  you  have  a  hand!  It's  the  help 


UNBROKEN  LINES 

that  counts,  not  the  helper.  Sometimes" — and  here 
Beverly's  eyes  grew  misty — "sometimes  I  think  it 
is  about  time  we  began  to  take  Christ  off  the  cross 
and  set  Him  free  to  be  where  once  He  longed  to 
be — with  his  people.  Why,  a  minister  came  here  the 
other  day  to  argue  with  me;  he  thinks  me  a  great 
sinner,  because  I  refuse  creeds — his  creed,  he  meant! 
He  said  I  was  taking  Christ  out  of  religion.  I  told 
him  that  I  was  only  trying  to  put  Christ  in — that 
He'd  been  nailed  to  the  cross  and  worshipped  as  a  dead 
Christ  too  long — that  I  wanted  to  see  Him  set  free! 

"The  poor  clergyman  left  me  with  a  check  in  his 
hand  and  with  his  head  in  the  air.  I  was  sorry  about 
the  head,  for  really  he  and  I  are  nearer  together  than 
he  guesses.  One  thing  separates  us:  he  does  not 
dare  to  put  his  belief  into  practice;  I  do!  And  so, 
Mac,  you  must  do  the  best  that  you  can.  You'll 
bungle,  you'll  get  to  places  where  you  see  only  defeat, 
but  I  have  no  one  but  you,  boy,  and  you  must  not 
fail  me.  And  remember  this:  no  good  deed  is  ever 
defeated;  at  the  worst  it  but  gives  place  to  a  better 


one." 


I'll  do  my  best,  Beverly." 

"You  won't  have  to  assume  the  responsibility 
at  once.  I'm  going  to  try  to  get  up  to  your  mountain 
heights  next  summer  and  see  what  they  can  do  for 
me.  But,  boy,  when  you  do  take  over  my  story,  I 
want  you  to  bring  into  it  the  characters  others  have 
kept  out.  You  see  what  I  mean?  The  men  and 
the  women,  the  girls  and  the  boys  that  are  not  ex 
actly—labelled." 

"I  think  I  see,  Beverly.  The  ones  that  others  do 
not  want;  you  want  them  here — the  gleanings." 


UNBROKEN  LINES  207 

"Exactly.  And  above  all  else,  make  them  happy. 
First  of  all,  food  and  happiness;  then,  time  to  think 
it  over.  Don't  let  any  one  ever  manage  this  place, 
Mac,  it  has  always  kept  clear  of  that.  It's  on  the  way 
for  everyone!  A  stopping  place  until  they  are 
strong  enough  to  take  to  the  road." 

"I  understand,  Beverly.  The  story  must  never 
shame  its  creator." 

Soon  after  that,  a  letter  from  Arnold  hastened 
Grey's  departure.  He  wrote: 


I  suppose,  Mac,  you're  going  to  spend  the  summer  some 
where.  You'd  better  come  up  here  and  potter  around.  I've 
picked  out  a  spot  for  Miss  Train's  cabin;  it  has  a  great  view — 
you  can  see  everything  without  standing  up. 

Then,  there's  Davey.  We  can't  make  up  stuff  to  suit  him. 
He's  always  calling  out  for  "Unker  Mac"  when  we  get  going  wild 
about  how  things  look.  Mountains  and  folks  are  facts  to  us — • 
but  Davey  won't  have  facts. 


So  in  July  Grey  travelled  back  to  the  heights.  He 
wanted  to  take  Beverly  Train,  but  she  shook  her  head. 

"I'll  wait  until  my  cabin  is  ready,  Mac,"  she  said; 
and  she  kissed  him  as  his  mother  might  have  kissed 
him,  when  she  bade  him  good-bye. 

Sam  Morton  was  waiting  for  Grey  at  Connor's. 
He  had  been  waiting  for  two  days.  The  big  fellow 
was  dumb  when  he  saw  Grey,  but  he  had  no  need 
for  words;  his  eyes  were  enough.  When  they  were 
well  on  the  way  up,  they  talked  a  good  deal,  though, 
about  Davey. 

"Do  you  know,  Mac,  that  kid  can  walk  clear  down 


208  UNBROKEN  LINES 

the  trail  from  the  cabin  to  the  Lodge  and  never  take 
a  tumble?" 

"He  has  sight  of  a  kind  about  which  we  know 
nothing,  Sam." 

"He  always  says  he  can  see,"  Morton  spoke  with 
deep  tenderness.  "  I  used  to  think  it  was  bad  business 
to  doll  things  up  so  for  Davey,  but  it's  queer,  ain't 
it,  how  you  get  to  seeing  things  more  beautiful  when 
you  make  them  out  beautiful  for  other  folks?" 

"It's  simply  looking  through  Davey's  eyes,  Sam." 

"I  shouldn't  wonder.  But  mountains  ain't  just 
rocks  and  gullies  to  me  any  longer,  nor  does  Polly 
look  like  she  used  to;  I  just  get  wondering  about  that 
sometimes — when  I'm  holding  Davey."  Sam's  voice 
trailed  tenderly. 

The  two  men  went  on  up  the  road  in  silence  for  a 
time  after  that.  Then  Sam  spoke  again. 

"God!  but  we're  glad  to  get  you  back,  Mac!"  he 
blurted  out. 

Arnold  was  striding  up  and  down  his  porch  when 
the  two  came  in  sight,  but  he  controlled  himself,  at 
once.  He- appeared,  on  the  surface,  to  be  quite  care 
free  but  he  and  Grey  sat  up  late  into  the  night,  talk 
ing  of  Glenn  and  her  child. 

"I  haven't  held  it  against  Mr.  Carrington"  [Dick 
had  never  been  "knighted"  by  Arnold]  "for  keeping 
Glenn  over  seas.  A  sick  child  is  excuse  enough  and 
I  reckon  if  my  girl  can  stand  it,  I  can.  But  when  she 
lands  on  her  home  shore  if  he  don't  forward  the  two 
to  the  Lodge,  I'll  have  something  to  say!  I  don't 
want  to  do  any  man  injustice,  Mac,  but  I  can't,  as 
the  Lord  hears  me,  get  nearer  to  Mr.  Carrington  than 
if  he  were  but  a  tourist.  Has  it  ever  struck  you, 


UNBROKEN  LINES  209 

Mac,  that  he  might  be  wanting  to — well,  to  change 
Glenn?" 

"Do  you  think  he  could,  Arnold?"  Grey  looked 
keenly  at  the  older  man.  He  was  thinking  of  the 
talk  with  Beverly  Train.  Did  Arnold,  also,  sense 
the  truth — the  lurking,  hidden  truth  ? 

"No/'  Arnold  returned,  and  gave  a  grim  laugh; 
"no,  I  don't.  But  there  might  be  a  devil  of  a  row 
before  she  convinced  him.  The  whole  thing  was  a 
damned  queer  performance,  Mac.  It  was  like  trying 
to  hit  something  in  the  dark.  If  it  hadn't  been  for 
my  own  experience  of  such  things  I  wouldn't  have 
stood  around  like  a  stalked  deer,  but  you  ought  not 
to  risk  too  much  on  your  own  experience  of  life,  Mac; 
I've  learned  that.  You  see  you  have  to  have  the 
same  ingredients  to  get  the  same  results."  Grey 
nodded.  "Mac;  I  want  to  tell  you  a  little  about — •; 
about  my  girl's  mother." 

This  startled  Grey,  but  he  did  not  raise  his  eyes. 
He  recalled  the  day,  long  ago — his  first  day  in  the 
living  room  of  the  Lodge  after  his  illness — and 
Glenn's  light,  quick  reference  to  her  mother.  He  had 
not  thought  often  of  the  matter  but  it  had  rested 
safely  in  the  pigeon-hole  of  his  memory — the  one 
labelled:  "Arnold."  It  was  nearly  midnight  when 
the  story  drew  to  its  close. 

"I  saw  a  hurt  and  bruised  creature,  Mac,  at  first, 
and  I  had  an  urge  to  help.  There  aren't  many  ways 
for  a  man  to  help  a  woman — more's  the  pity!  And 
I  wasn't  going  to  add  another  blow  to  the  many  that 
that  little  girl  had  got  already.  I'm  no  saint;  Mac, 
there  were  times — and  often  I've  bowed  my  head 
humbly  before  my  God  when  I  recalled  them — when 


2ic  UNBROKEN  LINES 

I  reasoned  that  if  I  took  what  I  saw  and  saved  it  from 
the  worst,  I  should  be  doing  a  mighty  lofty  thing — 
and  leaving  myself  a  loophole  as  well!  Man  has 
left  himself  too  many  loopholes  that  are  not  big 
enough  for  both  him  and  the  woman  to  crawl  through, 
and  so  I  just  blocked  mine!  I  took  that  little  woman 
the  same  as  if  she  had  had  a  safe  and  white  past  that 
somehow  had  got  blotted — and  that  not  alone  by  her 
fault,  by  a  long  shot,  whatever  way  you  take  it.  I 
built  on  that;  and  I  tell  you  that  what  happened  was 
wonderful — wonderful!  I  left  her  alone — I  meant 
always  to — I'm  not  one  to  half  do  a  job.  I  just 
watched  and  was  within  call.  I  learned  more  from 
that  little  woman  than  I'd  learned — in  all  my  life  be 
fore!  Learned  what  tenderness  and  love  and  sweet 
ness  were.  She  simply — grew!  All  that  had  been 
stunted,  afraid,  half  killed,  came  out  strong.  First 
she  learned  to  trust  me;  and  then  she  never  stopped 
until,  with  such  a  look  as  I  never  expect  to  see  on 
another  woman's  face,  she  told  me  how  she  loved  me ! 
"I  tell  you,  Mac,  God  doesn't  always  give  us  what 
we  most  want  in  this  world — but  He  did  give  it  to 
me!" 

"And  youVe  never  regretted  not  reading  the  letter 
she  left,  Arnold?" 

"Never  but  once;  that  was  when  Glenn  came  to 
womanhood.  And  yet,  maybe  it  was  best  she  did 
not  know.  We  all  have  to  chance  such  a  lot." 

"You're  great  stuff,  Arnold,  great  stuff!"  Grey 
was  deeply  touched. 

"Just  common  stuff,  Mac,  thank  God  1  Only  some 
men  never  put  the  best  in  them  to  the  test.  They 
slump  at  the  critical  moment.  Why,  man,  when 


UNBROKEN  LINES  211 

that  little  woman  of  mine  loved  me,  no  matter  what 
lay  behind,  I'd  have  gone  on  to  hell  with  her,  if  she'd 
been  bent  in  that  direction." 

"As  it  was,"  Grey  ventured,  "you'd  set  her  in  the 
opposite  direction." 

"Oh!  I  don't  know,  Mac.  I'm  leaning  to  the  idea 
more  and  more,  that  it's  only  when  we  get  to  thinking 
we  can  do  God's  work  instead  of  our  own,  that  we 
ruin  things.  I  sort  of  let  His  job  alone  and  waited. 
But  what's  the  use  of  passing  judgment  when  you 
haven't  all  the  facts  ?  We're  all  stumbling  along  and 
when  one  tumbles  you  ought  not  think  it's  because 
he's  bad,  or  even  wrong.  He  may  only  be  weak, 
and  that  isn't  a  crime." 

"No,  Arnold,  it  isn't."  Grey  spoke  with  feeling. 
"There  will  be  rare  hours  when  you  and  Beverly 
Train  get  together." 

"Queer!"  observed  Arnold,  "but  I've  had  the 
strangest  feeling  about  Miss  Train,  since  her  cabin 
was  begun.  I've  been  working  on  it  lately,  at  odd 
times,  and  it  seems  as  if  she  were — well,  having  a 
say  about  it.  I  stop  to  get  my  leadings.  It  makes 
me  laugh.  I  was  going  to  put  the  fireplace  to  one 
side,  but  for  the  life  of  me  I  couldn't.  It  grew  on  me 
that  Miss  Train  wanted  it  facing  the  door,  like  a 
welcome." 

"That  would  be  like  her." 

Then  the  two  men  arose  and  parted  for  the  night. 
At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  Grey  paused  and  said: 

"Arnold,  can  you  not  feel  the  same  way  about — 
well,  about  God's  work — where  Glenn  is  concerned?" 

"I'm  trying,  Mac.  I've  been  trying  ever  since — 
her  baby  came." 


212  UNBROKEN  LINES 

The  next  morning,  as  Grey  was  standing  at  the 
door  of  his  own  cabin  he  heard  a  shrill,  glad  call: 

"Unker  Mac!— Unker  Mac!— here  I  be!"  And 
there  Davey  was,  coming  down  the  trail. 

Davey  had  grown  tall  and  strong.  He  looked 
like  a  child  of  seven.  He  had  a  wonderful  sort  of 
beauty — not  spiritual,  but  rather  the  human,  per 
fected!  He  was  groping  with  arms  extended,  head 
uplifted;  the  morning  light  was  on  his  fine  face.  Grey 
ran  and  clasped  him  in  his  arms.  He  didn't  kiss  him, 
but  he  held  him  close  and  then  carried  him  to  the 
porch. 

Sitting  beside  Grey,  Davey  poured  out  his  con 
fidences. 

"Daddy  made  the  mountains  hard  and — and 
crooked,  linker  Mac." 

"Shocking!  We'll  fix  that  up,  right  away.  Re 
member  about  Thor  and  his  hammer,  Davey?" 

"Yes,  Unker  Mac." 

"All  right.  We'll  send  a  wireless  to  Thor." 
Davey  chuckled. 

"And  Unker  Mac,  big  Daddy  Arnold  said  he  didn't 
know  how  the  far-off  girl  looked!"  Davey  meant 
Glenn's  child. 

"I'm  surprised  at  Big  Daddy.  He  ought  to  use 
your  eyes,  Davey.  Now  you  tell  me  how  Constance 
looks,  to  you!" 

Davey's  face  grew  dreamy. 

"I  see  her — just  as  tall  as  me.  If  we  stand  close 
we  can  see  the  same  things.  Her  hair  is  shiny;"  [only 
God  knew  how  Davey  was  able  to  see  the  shine  on 
things]  "and  so  are  her  eyes.  She  laughs — much — 
and  tells  funny  things." 


UNBROKEN  LINES  213 

"She's  a  hummer!"  ejaculated  Grey. 

"Yes;  I  want  her  a  hummer,  Unker  Mac."  The 
boy  nestled  close  to  Grey.  "I  never  fall  on  the 
trail"  [he  went  on  clinging  closer]  "dear  Unker 
Mac,  it  is  so  easy!  And  I  can  see.  Something  in 
me,  sees." 

And  thus  it  was  that  the  quiet  detached  life  took 
up  its  steady  way  in,  and  around,  the  Lodge.  People 
came  and  went.  Grey  guided,  or  stayed  behind  to 
cook  and  look  after  the  place  while  Arnold  led  the 
way.  They  shared  everything  in  the  old,  happy 
fashion. 

In  August  a  cable  came  from  England:  "We're 
coming  home."  That  was  all.  A  glad  note  of  joy. 

"What  does  that  mean?"  asked  Arnold,  his  face 
twitching — "  home  ? " 

"I  think" —  and  Grey  had  no  twinge  of  conscience 
— "I  think  it  means  the  Lodge,  Arnold!" 

But  to  Carrington  it  meant  Far  Hills  which  had 
been  made  ready,  at  last,  for  its  mistress. 

In  late  August  Glenn  and  Constance,  with  a  gov 
erness  and  an  English  nurse,  arrived.  Carrington 
watched  his  wife;  he  was  constantly  watching  her 
lately — when  he  was  with  her.  He  saw  that  the 
sacred  precincts  of  the  Carringtons  meant  to  her 
merely  a  place  in  her  own  country,  where  at  last, 
she  might  cease  from  her  journeyings  and — rest! 
This  hurt  him  cruelly  for  he  had  spared  no  expense  in 
his  efforts,  not  to  please,  but  to  impress  her. 

Constance  on  the  other  hand,  rose  to  the  surface  in 
a  most  remarkable  way. 

"I  like  this!"  she  said,  actually  sniffing  the  air 


214  UNBROKEN  LINES 

of  the  rich,  old  rooms,  "I  like  it  better  than  anything 
I've  ever  seen."  The  child  was  absurdly  old  in  ap 
pearance  and  thought. 

Carrington  flushed.  His  little  daughter  did  not 
greatly  interest  him,  but  he  softened  to  her  now.  He 
had  grown  to  look  upon  the  child  as  the  symbol  of 
unpleasant  things.  She  had  meant  care,  anxiety, 
expense,  but — most  of  all — the  cause  of  a  certain 
subtle  estrangement  between  him  and  Glenn.  He 
could  not  understand  the  new  relationship.  It  was 
as  if  Glenn  were  escaping  him;  lea\mg  in  his  clutch 
nothing  but  the  outer  covering  of  the  woman  he  be 
lieved  was  wholly  his  own.  He  decided  as  he  looked 
at  Constance  now,  to  do  what  he  once  had  contem 
plated — detach  the  child  entirely  from  her  mother, 
physically.  In  congenial  environment  the  little 
girl  might  safely  be  left,  he  considered,  to  trained 
care;  Glenn — at  home,  rested,  and  at  peace — might 
then  become  herself  once  more! 

Carrington  had  not  perceived  that  Glenn  had,  at 
last,  really  become  herself.  She  was  his,  he  believed. 
He  had  watched  and  tended  her.  Of  course  her;  ill 
ness  and  Constance's  care  had  worn  upon  her,  but 
she  was — she  must  be — the  same;  his!  his! 

But,  to  his  discomfort,  he  soon  found  that  when 
Glenn  was  absent,  bodily,  from  Constance,  her 
•thoughts  were  the  more  determinedly  with  the  child. 
It  was  not  a  passionate  mother-love  that  held  Glenn; 
it  was  more  a  sense  of  trying  to  be  what  she  did  not 
seem  able  to  be.  Little  Constance  had  not  a  respon 
sive  nature,  but  she  was  keen  enough  to  recognize 
her  mother's  superior  qualities  of  tender  service  and 
she  clung  to  her  for  that  reason.  She  was  a  tall, 


UNBROKEN  LINES  215 

reedy  child  with  very  definite  features  and  coal-black 
hair.  She  carried  herself  straight  and  with  dignity. 
She  rarely  laughed,  but  she  had  a  strange  smile. 
It  suggested  that  she  knew  more  than  she  chose  to 
express.  A  grim  menacing  sword  hung  over  her  of 
which  she,  of  course,  knew  nothing,  but  which  made 
others  deeply  considerate  of  her! 

"If  she  lives  until  she  is  twelve,"  the  most  famous 
doctor  in  England  had  said,  "she  may  become  a 
healthy  woman." 

To  Glenn  this  hope  meant  struggle,  glory.  To 
Carrington  it  carried  a  question.  He  had  seen  others 
of  his  race  fade  and  die.  It  was  not  a  pleasant  sight. 
He,  except  for  Constance,  was  the  last  of  his  line. 
His  daughter's  sex  and  frail  constitution,  had  been  a 
shock  to  him.  One  from  which  he  was  slowly  evolv 
ing  a  stern  resolution.  He  had  believed  that  the 
introduction  of  such  vitality  as  Glenn's  would  coun 
teract  the  tendencies  of  his  family — but  when  he 
reflected  what  motherhood  had  done  for  Glenn,  what 
it  had  produced  in  Constance,  he  recoiled. 

It  was  not  easy,  at  first,  for  Carrington  to  relin 
quish  the  idea  of  family,  but  he  cared  not  enough  for 
it  to  pay  the  price.  Having  forced  himself  to  accept 
what  he  chose  to  regard  as  inevitable,  he  turned  all 
his  energy  to  bringing  his  wife  back  to  her  first  rela 
tions  with  him.  He  craved  the  stimulus  she  had 
supplied  to  his  jaded  imagination;  he  missed  the 
amusement  that  her  quaint  humour  and  frank  de 
light  in  his  offerings  once  gave  him.  With  pleasure 
he  saw,  once  Glenn  was  settled  at  Far  Hills,  that 
health  and  much  of  the  old  beauty  returned!  She 
became  playful  too,  and  often  delightfully  joyous, 


216  UNBROKEN  LINES 

but  he  could  but  acknowledge  that  Constance,  not 
he,  had  inspired  the  change. 

"I  must  not — just  because  I  want  to — cry;  I  must 
not!"  Glenn  once  said.  "Constance  must  have 
all  that  she  might  have  had  if  she  had  been  well  and 
strong.  We've  got  to  make  her  trail  easy,  Dickey 
dear,  just  as  they  have  made  Davey's."  Carrington 
frowned.  Then  Glenn,  with  that  grave,  new  look 
of  hers,  added;  "Dick;  our  other  children  may  be 
all  that  we  could  desire.  I  think  they  will  help 
Constance,  too.  She  must  have  all  the  joy  possible, 
and  companionship." 

Carrington  turned  his  calm  gaze  upon  his  wife  and 
said  quietly,  but  with  slow  emphasis: 

"There  will  never  be  any  other  children,  Glenn. 
I  am  the  only  one  of  nine  children  that  survived. 
I  had  hoped " 

Glenn  looked  at  Carrington,  aghast. 

"  But,  dear,  there  is  often  one  frail  child  in  a  family. 
The  others " 

"People  should  use  their  intelligence,  Glenn — 
and  their  conscience — in  such  matters.  I  had  hoped 
that  the  taint  in  my  family  inheritance  had  died  out. 
It  has  not!" 

"But  Dick "  Glenn  could  not  voice  her  dismay. 

She  only  looked  helplessly  at  her  husband. 

"When  you  are  older,"  Carrington  said,  "you  will 
see  the  wisdom  of  my  decision.  I  have  consulted 
the  best  authority,  Glenn.  You  will  agree  with  me 
some  day." 

"Perhaps;  perhaps,  Dick." 

Glenn  turned  away.  Somehow  she  felt  as  if  she 
were  facing  life,  maimed.  It  would  need  all  her  faith 


UNBROKEN  LINES  217 

and  love  and  hope  to  reconstruct  things,  but  she  was 
ready,  maimed  as  she  was,  to  make  the  effort. 
Vaguely  she  felt  that  she  should  have  known — have 
had  choice,  before  it  was  too  late.  "This  must  mean 
as  much  to  Dick  as  to  me,"  she  at  last,  however,  con 
cluded.  "I  did  not  know  that  such  a  thing  could  be." 
Then:  "I  must  find  something  to  do — something 
that  will  keep  me  from  thinking  until  I  get  used  to  it. 
And  I  must  make  Constance  count  more  than  ever." 

But  this  was  no  easy  matter.  There  seemed  to  be 
nothing  that  was  in  crying  need  of  her  service.  The 
old  family  portraits  on  the  wall — they  had  been 
covered  with  gauze  on  her  last,  brief  visit — frowned 
down  any  suggestion,  on  her  part,  of  innovation  or 
change.  Carrington's  mother,  especially,  seemed  to 
denounce  her  for  wanting  what  her  son  deemed  un 
wise.  All  the  little  dead  Carringtons  who  had  passed 
away  before  they  could  be  made  immortal  on  canvas 
appeared  to  reinforce  their  mother's  and  their  older 
brother's  ideas,  by  shadowy  protest. 

The  elder  Constance  Carrington  became  a  terrify 
ing  reflection  upon  Glenn  and  with  amaze  she  heard 
little  Constance  say  one  day: 

"I  like  the  face  of  my  grandmother." 

"Do  you  really,  Constance?" — Glenn  had  asked. 
"Why?" 

"Why?  Why  because  she  is  my  grandmother!" 
There  were  moments  when  Constance  was  abnor 
mally  old;  almost  shockingly  so. 

"Oh!"  said  Glenn  and  felt  more  an  outcast  than 
ever. 

Before  the  grandfather  who  had  gone  to  Congress 
Constance  oftenest  stood.  Her  father  had  told  her 


218  UNBROKEN  LINES 

that  she  resembled  this  austere  old  gentleman,  but, 
even  with  her  inherent  tendencies,  the  child  could  not 
quite  accept  the  honour  without  compromise. 

Glenn  sought  to  comfort  her. 

"Father  means  just  a  likeness,  Constance,  not 
really  that  you  look  like  him." 

"But  I  want  to  look  like  him!"  The  Carrington 
blood  was  up. 

"Is  that  quite  true?"  Glenn  asked.  She  was  dis 
mayed. 

"Yes,  Mother,  because — well,  because  he  is  my 
grandfather."  Occasionally  the  child  was  hopefully 
young.  At  such  moments  Glenn  wanted  to  fold  her 
close  and  weep  over  her,  or  laugh  with  joy;  but  she 
never  did. 

Suddenly  Constance  said,  quite  as  if  her  mother 
were  a  mere  connection  of  the  Carringtons  by  mar 
riage: 

"Have  you  any  grandfathers  and  grandmothers, 
Mother?" 

"Why — why  of  course,  child;  but  they  did  not  have 
their  pictures  taken!"  This  to  Constance  was 
funny,  but  she  did  not  smile. 

"That  is  too  bad  1  Then  you  cannot  tell  how  they 
looked?" 

"They  looked — well,  they  looked  like  folks,  Con 
stance."  Glenn  was  drifting  in  the  open. 

"Not — not  like  my  grandfathers  and  grand 
mothers?" 

"Heavens!  no,  Constance."  The  outburst  escaped 
Glenn;  she  hurried  to  any  port  in  sight.  "Wait  until 
you  see  Granddaddy  Arnold,  Constance — then  you'll 
understand  what  mother  means." 


UNBROKEN  LINES  219 

But  Constance  had  her  doubts.  Already  she  had 
assumed  that  if  her  father  said  that  black  was  white, 
it  was  some  defect  in  her  own  vision  that  made  it  look 
the  reverse.  But  if  her  mother  declared  that  white 
was  black,  she  felt  rather  sorry  that  her  mother 
couldn't  tell  fact  from  fancy. 

A  housekeeper  of  old  standing  commanded  the 
forces  in  the  Carrington  house.  She  was  deferential 
to  Glenn,  so  long  as  Glenn  observed  her  limitations. 
The  maids  were  well  drilled  and  rigidly  respect 
ful,  but  they  left  no  loophole  for  admittance  into  the 
intimate  home  life  of  Far  Hills. 

Outside,  on  the  grounds,  things  were  about  the 
same.  A  hoary  gardener  with  a  trained  staff  man 
aged  to  suggest  "No  thoroughfare",  "Do  not  step  on 
the  grass",  everywhere,  to  the  lonely  young  woman 
pacing  the  shaded  paths  and  looking  yearningly  at 
plants  that  had  been  cultivated  to  the  last  degree — 
and  who  longed  for  the  wild  things  of  the  hills. 

"I  wonder  what  I  am  expected  to  do?"  Glenn 
thought  and  thought.  For  with  no  prospect  of  be 
coming  a  factor  in  the  old  place,  she  fell  back,  at  last, 
upon  something  within  herself — something  that  had 
been  shut  away  for  many  a  long  day. 

In  September  a  hungry  craving  for  the  mountains 
overcame  her.  She  wanted  her  father  until  the 
want  made  her  almost  ill.  She  wanted  Polly  and 
Sam  and  the  beloved  Davey;  and  she  wanted  Grey! 
She  confessed  the  last  want  with  quickened  pulses. 
She  wanted  to  be  part  of  something — to  have  love 
and,  yes:  recognition!  And  just  at  that  point  she 
thought  of  her  husband.  She  believed  that  she  was 
not  loyal.  She  must  go  to  him  and  give  him  an  op- 


220  UNBROKEN  LINES 

portunity  to  understand  her  present  needs.  He  was 
busy — often  worried.  Business,  that  business  away 
off  below  Far  Hills — she  could  see  the  smoke  on 
clear  days  from  the  tall  chimneys — was  very  exasper 
ating,  just  then.  A  certain  man,  named  Thompson, 
was  always  coming  up  the  hill  and  bringing  disagree 
able  news.  He  made  her  husband  irritable  and  often 
angry. 

Glenn  suddenly  thought  that  here  was  a  place  for 
her  to  enter  and  become  vital.  She  could  not  go 
away  while  Carrington  was  so  openly  worried  about 
things;  he  needed  her.  She  must  make  him  know  his 
need  of  her.  With  this  in  view  she  went  to  Carring- 
ton's  business  library.  Carrington  drew  a  sharp  line 
between  this  room  and  the  library  proper.  He  did 
not  go  often  to  his  factories,  but  when  the  tiresome 
details  of  the  noisy  place  demanded  his  attention 
he  met  them  in  this  room,  built  like  an  afterthought, 
on  to  the  old  house.  It  overlooked  a  broad  sweep 
of  lawn — a  fitting  barrier  between  Far  Hills  and  those 
tall  chimneys  that  sent  curls  of  black  smoke  up  into 
the  air  for  so  many  hours  each  day. 

There  were  times  when  Carrington  felt  an  exquisite 
thrill  as  he  gazed  upon  those  chimneys.  "If  they 
always  belched  forth  smoke,  twenty-four  hours  out 
of  the  twenty-four,  how  much  gold  would  flow  into 
the  Carrington  coffers!"  he  estimated. 

And  again,  he  put  another  conundrum  to  his  Other 
Self  as  it  sat  in  the  swivel  chair  by  the  mahogany 
desk: 

"How  nearly  twenty-four  out  of  twenty-four  dare 
Thompson  wring  and  be  within — safely  and  surely 
within — the  law?" 


UNBROKEN  LINES  221 

And  the  Other  Self,  looking  virtuous  and  calm, 
called  his  attention  to  the  unfortunate  fact  that  times 
had  changed.  The  law  was  not  all  in  all  as  it  had 
been  in  his  father's  time.  A  very  deplorable  Some 
thing  had  entered  in  and  perhaps  he — the  Real  Self — 
had  better  investigate.  But  Carrington  turned  a 
deaf  ear  to  this.  He  knew  what  it  meant  to  show 
weakness.  He  might  be  obliged  at  times — at  least 
Thompson  was — to  back  down  a  bit,  but  a  Carring 
ton?  Never!  He'd  wreak  his  vengeance  in  some 
other  way  if  he  were  obliged  to  appear  weak.  They 
would  know!  Would  they  not?  By  "they"  Car 
rington  meant  the  people  who  made  the  wheels  go 
around  and  the  smoke  go  up. 

Into  such  a  state  of  Carrington's  mind  Glenn  en 
tered  one  September  day.  Her  sudden  resolve  and 
hope  made  her  appear  more  lovely  than  she  had  been 
for  some  time. 

"Dickey,  have  the  black  butterflies  got  you?"  she 
asked — this  being  her  description  of  the  "blues." 

She  came  across  the  room  to  him  and  sat  on  the 
arm  of  the  chair;  it  revolved.  "Dear  me,"  she  cried, 
"this  is  no  sort  of  chair  to  be  lovers  in,  is  it,  Dick?" 

"No,  my  darling."  Carrington  put  an  arm  around 
her. 

"I  declare!  There  isn't  a  piece  of  love-furniture  in 
this  room,  Dick."  She  looked  about,  critically. 

"It's  an  office  Glenn,  dear.  Business  place,  you 
know." 

"I  see."  And  she  looked  to  where  the  black  smoke 
soiled  the  blue  sky.  "Come  outside,  dear,"  she 
pleaded;  "let  us  walk  in  the  sunshine;  I  have  some 
thing  to  say  to  you — a  big,  thumping  something." 


222  UNBROKEN  LINES 

"  Say  it  here,  dear  one ;  we'll  walk  afterward.  This 
is  the  place  of  business,  you  know.  We'll  be  lovers 
when  the  business  is  over.  Sit  down,"  he  said,  much 
as  he  might  have  to  Thompson,  and  Glenn  sat  where 
Thompson  was  wont  to  sit.  She  looked  very  fair 
and  sweet. 

"I  wish  you'd  sit  squarely  on  a  chair,  Glenn" 
[Carrington  was  visualizing  Thompson's  solid  ap 
pearance];  "you  always  have  a  transitory  manner  of 
sitting  on  a  chair.  You  don't  look — as  if  you  had 
come  to  stay." 

Then  they  both  laughed. 

"Oh,  well,  Dick,  chairs  do  not  mean  to  me  what 
they  do  to  many  folks.  I  used  to  be  on  my  feet  a  good 
deal,  you  know — and  on  horses  and  rocks  and — and 
things " 

Carrington  frowned,  but  did  not  speak. 

"Dick!" — suddenly — "what  is  my  particular — 
well,  job — here  in  your  home?"  Glenn  could  hardly 
have  framed  a  more  annoying  question  as  to  form 
and  fact.  "What  did — your  mother  do  to  make  her 
life  self-respecting?"  she  added. 

This  was  a  simple  insult — although  innocently 
projected. 

"Glenn" — Carrington  rose  and  paced  the  room; 
he  was  very  good  to  look  at,  but  very  much  dis 
turbed — "My  mother  was  mistress  of  her  home!" 

"But — but  did  she  have  Hannah?" 

"She  did,  Glenn.     She  trained  Hannah." 

"I  hope  God  will  forgive  her  for  that!"  This 
frivolity  shocked  Carrington.  "And — and  all  the 
maids?  Did  she  do  that  to  all  the  maids,  too, 
Dick?" 


UNBROKEN  LINES  223 

"The  maids  are  Hannah's  business.     Hannah  is 

yours,  Glenn. " 

"Oh!  Dick — my  business?  Hannah,  my  busi 
ness?  Why,  my  dear  boy,  you  do  not  know  what 
you  are  talking  about." 

Now  Carrington  was  not  thinking  of  Glenn  as 
Glenn,  just  then.  He  was  considering  her  as  business 
— as  he  considered  Thompson.  Suppose  Thompson 
called  him  "dear  boy"  and  told  him  he  didn't  know 
what  he  was  talking  about.  What  ought  he  to  do? 
Undoubtedly  he  would  be  obliged  to  bring  Thompson 
to  terms ! 

"See  here,  Glenn,"  he  wheeled  about  on  his  heels 
and  faced  her.  She  had,  thank  fortune!  taken 
root,  apparently,  in  the  chair.  She  seemed — fixed. 

"I've  noticed  how  detached  youVe  seemed.  I 
have  attributed  it  to  the  strangeness  of  your  new 
life.  Readjustment  was  necessary  and  I  have  been 
patient,  but  I  advise  you  now,  my  dear,  to  make 
yourself  a  power  in  my  home.  You  must  compel 
Hannah  and  all  the  others  to — to  recognize  you  and 
respect  you!" 

"Dicky,  I — I  cannot!  Won't  you  do  it  for  me, 
please?" 

"Glenn;  be  sensible!" 

"I  am,  Dick.  Deathly  sensible.  We  may  as 
well  have  it  out.  Constance  isn't  mine,  really. 
I'm  afraid  of  her  nurse  and  governess — and  they 
know  it!  The  house  isn't  mine  in  the  least,  and 
Hannah  and  the  maids  know  it.  Dick;  what  is 
mine?" 

She  looked  beaten  and  helpless.  Carrington  hated 
a — defeated  thing!  He  turned  his  eyes  away  and 


224  UNBROKEN  LINES 

sought — to  his  credit — to  reinstate  Glenn,  in  spite 
of  herself. 

"I  see  what  you  mean,  child,  but  all  the  things 
you  complain  of  will  really  be  your  ablest  helps  when 
you  get  the  grip  of  life.  I  want  Far  Hills  to  be  a — a 
social  centre." 

Carrington  reflected  upon  the  impression  his  wife 
had  already  made  upon  the  "calling"  circle  that 
had  politely  come  to  pay  their  compliments.  Glenn 
had  startled  some,  amused  others,  interested  them 
all.  She  might,  if  properly  directed,  be  a  real  power 
— simply  because  of  her  originality  and  adaptability. 
Her  capacity  for  adapting  herself  was  little  short  of 
genius,  but  she  must  always  have  motive  and  interest. 

It  was  this  doubt  as  to  what  would  prove  worth 
while  to  Glenn,  that  disturbed  Carrington.  He 
realized,  at  last,  that  Grey  had,  to  a  certain  extent 
been  right.  There  was  something  intact  in  Glenn 
that  nothing  he  had  done,  or  could  hope  to  do,  would 
dislodge;  but,  he  reasoned,  he  could  manipulate  that 
intact  characteristic.  He  must  control  it! 

"I  want  my  wife — later,  my  daughter — to  be 
recognized  as  social  leaders!"  Carrington  had  to 
turn  away.  Glenn  on  the  chair,  unnerved  him; 
made  his  ambitions  seem  so  trivial  that  they  might 
easily  become  ridiculous.  "Hannah,  the  maids,  Con 
stance's  governess,  and  the  nurse,  are  your — your 

machinery  to "  He  looked  out  of  the  window; 

so  did  Glenn. 

"To  make  smoke — black  smoke?"  She  queried. 
This  was  most  unfortunate.  Carrington  stiffened 
and  Glenn  went  on:  "I  don't  want  any  of  those 
things,  Dick." 


UNBROKEN  LINES  225 

Carrington  still  meant  to  be  just  and  firm. 

"My  darling;  have  you  any  idea,  really,  what  you 
do  want?" 

"Yes.  I  want  Constance  and  you — just  for  my 
own — my  own!  I  want  to  mean  everything  to  you 
both;  nothing  else  matters.  I'll  be  very  nice  to  your 
friends,  Dickey,  but  I'll  never  care  to — to  lead  them. 
Dick,  dear,  I  wonder  if  I  couldn't  get  close  to  you 
through  your  business?  I'm  rather  good  along  that 
line.  Daddy  used  to  say  that  I  had  a  head.  Lately, 
Fve  thought,  when  you  were  worried  and  sad — after 
that  awful  Thompson  came  and  went — that  if  I 
could  know  all  about  it,  and  tell  you  that  we  did  not 
need  so  much  money  and  things,  you'd  feel  happier. 
Oh!  Dick,  other  things  mean  so  much  more  than  the 
bought  things.  Let  us  go  to  my  mountains  for 
October,  Dick — go  and  surprise  Daddy  for  my  birth 
day.  We  need  toning  up.  We've  a'll  got  our  sea  legs 
on  yet.  I  want" — and  here  Glenn  stretched  out  her 
hands — "I  want — my  folks!" 

Carrington  was  frightened  and  angry.  Frightened 
at  Glenn's  groping  toward  his  business;  angry  at  her 
craving  for  what  he  had  been  trying,  for  years,  to 
overcome:  her  longing  [he  drew  his  lips  close]  for  her 
folks! 

By  some  sudden  enlightenment  he  seemed  to  real 
ize  that  all  his  effort,  all  his  years  of  careful  devotion 
had  made  no  actual  impression  upon  Glenn.  She  had 
not  caught  his  true  meaning;  had  not  become  con 
vinced  of  his  ideals;  in  short  she  had  not  become  what 
he  thought,  in  his  easy  confidence,  she  had  become 
— the  woman  of  his  making! 

"My  dear" — he  came  close  and  towered  over  her; 


226  UNBROKEN  LINES 

he  seemed  to  grow  a  foot  as  she  looked  up  at  him — 
"I  must  speak  plainly  to  you.  The  women  of  my 
family  leave  the  business  of  the  family  to  their  men. 
Kindly  remember  this.  As  to  your  wanting  to  go 
to  your — your  folks  as  you  term  them — I  suppose 
that  is  quite  natural;  but  you  must  see  that  now  is 
not  the  time  for  such  a  visit.  We  have  just  come 
home.  Until  the  home  is  an  established  and  ac 
complished  fact — I  mean  your  part  in  it — I  feel  that 
it  is  impossible  to — to  go  away.  I  mean  to  entertain 
this  winter — entertain  a  great  deal.  I  want  you  to 
be  the  mistress  here.  Spare  no  expense  in — in  be 
coming  so.  If  you  love  me,  Glenn;  if  you  wish  to 
please  me — to  be  what  my  wife  should  be — you  will 
set  yourself  to  your  task  at  once." 

If  Carrington  had  seemed  to  grow  tall,  Glenn 
seemed  to  grow  old  as  she  listened.  Her  hands 
tightened  around  the  arms  of  the  chair;  her  eyes 
shone  dark  and  hard. 

"I'll  try,  Dick,"  she  murmured,  "and  if  I  am — 
am" —  she  wanted  to  say  "good";  instead  she  said 
"successful — may  we  go  to  the  mountains  next 
summer?"  She  was  ready  to  compromise,  but  not 
to  abdicate. 

"Perhaps — my  darling." 

"Oh,  Dick,  say  'yes*.  Let  me  have  that  in  view. 
It  will  be  something  to  live  for." 

"All  I  can  say,  Glenn,  is:  'perhaps.'  I  would  not 
like  to  promise  and  fail." 

Glenn  got  up.  She  did  not  again  suggest  going  out 
into  the  sunshine  to  walk.  She  said  nothing.  But, 
suddenly,  with  a  flash  of  joy,  she  remembered  Beverly 
Train ! 


CHAPTER  XVI 

BEVERLY  was  in  her  garden.  The  tall  plants 
shielded  her  from  the  glare  of  the  afternoon 
sun.  There  was  a  little  table  by  the  long 
wheel-chair  on  which  were  iced  tea  and  cigarettes.  All 
the  small  vices  that  helped  to  pass  the  time,  Beverly 
availed  herself  of.  She  had  been  sipping  and  puffing 
luxuriously,  talking  now  and  then  to  the  little  maid 
who  had  once  started  wrong  but  had  been  caught 
in  time. 

"Margaret,  child,  if  you  want  to  marry  Tom, 
my  gardener,  of  course — marry  him."  She  was 
saying. 

"But — oh,  Miss  Beverly — think  what  I  once  was! 
— and  Tom  does  not  know." 

"Child,  Tom  isn't  asking  to  marry  what  you  once 
were;  he's  asking  to  marry  what  your  past  has  made 
of  you." 

"It  was  you  who — who  made  me,  Miss  Beverly." 

"Nonsense!  Don't  be  silly,  child.  What  could  a 
crippled,  hunched-backed  creature  like  me  do  for 
a  strapping  girl  like  you  except  to  put  you  on  the 
way?  All  that  you  were,  child,  made  it  possible  for 
you  to — keep  on!" 

"But,  Miss  Beverly,  hasn't  Tom  a  right  to — 
know?" 

"I  don't  see  why!  I  declare,  I  don't,  not  as  a 
natural  right.  You  might  choose  to  give  him  your, 

227 


228  UNBROKEN  LINES 

past,  my  dear.     I  don't  think  he  has  a  right  to  it. 
Do  you  know  his?'9 

"That's  different,  Miss  Beverly." 
"I  don't  admit  that.     Now  listen  Margaret.     Do 
you  remember  what  I  told  you  when  you  came  here  ? " 

"You  told  me,  Miss  Beverly,  that  I'd  turned  the 
curve  in  the  road!  That  I  had  no  right  to  look  back 
— that  I  couldn't  see  much  any  way,  and  that  unless 
I  meant  to  go  back  and  turn  the  curve  again,  I'd 
better — forget  it!" 

"  Precisely.  You've  learned  your  lesson  beauti 
fully.  Now,  Margaret,  you  never  have  gone  back 
to  that  curve,  have  you  ? " 

"Oh,  no,  Miss  Beverly;  no!" 

"Well,  girl,  I  told  Tom  just  what  I  told  you.  Just 
what  I  tell  all  who  start  on  the  way.  I've  forgotten, 
exactly  what  Tom's  specialty  was  before  he  came 
here.  Unless  he  mentions  it,  it  had  best  lie  back  of  the 
curve.  He's  a  mighty  good  gardener  now  and  you 
are  the  cheeriest,  best  little  soul  that  ever  made  com 
fortable  a  helpless  creature  in  a  long  chair.  I'm  sel 
fish,  clear  through.  I  would  hate  to  lose  Tom's 
touch  in  my  garden.  I'd  grieve  to  lose  your  care, 
child,  when — when  I  am  at  my  worst.  If  you  and 
Tom  can  manage  to  stay  on,  and  still  have  your  own 
lives,  it  would  mean  much  to  me."  Then  Beverly 
turned  sharply. 

"Who  is  that  coming  across  the  lawn,  Margaret? 
Have  I  not  told  Jane—" 

"It's — it's  Mrs.  Carrington,  Miss  Beverly.  You 
know  you  said,  when  she  telephoned " 

"Mrs.  Carrington!"  gasped  Beverly  Train.  "Dear 
God!" 


UNBROKEN  LINES  229 

Glenn  came  slowly.  Every  step  was  one  of  pleas 
ure  to  her.  The  scent  of  the  flowers,  the  peace,  the 
song  of  birds,  all  made  her  happy;  and  she  was  going 
toward  Beverly  Train !  Advancing,  thinking  herself 
unseen,  Glenn  showed  her  innate  self  to  the  eye 
watching  her  from  behind  the  screen  of  leaves.  No 
longer  did  the  burden  of  "things"  hide  the  real 
woman  from  Beverly's  keen,  spiritual  vision.  She 
saw  the  disillusioned  self  of  Dick  Carrington's  wife. 
A  brave,  well-meaning  self — but  without  one  shred 
of  disguise.  And  how  thin  the  girl  was — and  how 
strangely  calm!  Beverly  Train  felt  her  eyes  dim, 
but  she  wiped  them  quickly. 

"Go,"  she  said  to  her  maid,  "go  and  tell  Mrs. 
Carrington  where  I  am.  After  an  hour — no,  an 
hour  and  a  half — bring  the  tea  things." 

A  moment  later  Glenn  was  kneeling  beside  the  long 
chair.  Her  cheek  rested  on  the  cool,  little  hand 
stretched  out  to  her. 

"May  I  sit  on  this  stool — close?" 

"If  you  are  not  too  big  and  lofty,  my  dear." 

"Do  I  look  it,  Miss  Beverly?" 

"No,  you  don't,  my  child." 

Then  they  were  quiet  for  a  while.  Beverly  knew 
the  girl  had  come,  as  others  came,  because  she  needed 
help.  She  must  have  time  to  set  her  troubles  in 
orderly  array  before  they  were  inspected.  So 
Beverly  waited. 

"Mac  used  to  say,  Miss  Beverly,  that  you  could  see 
farther  and  more  clearly  from  your  chair  than  any  one 
else  could  see  with — with  a  telescope." 
1  They  both  smiled  a  little  at  that.     It  brought  Mac 
into  the  sunny  arena. 


230  UNBROKEN  LINES 

"Mac  is  rather  fanciful  as  to  language,  isn't  he?" 

Beverly  nodded. 

"Yes,  but  he  makes  things  real,  too." 

Then  another  pause,  while  Beverly  smiled  into  the 
troubled  eyes. 

"I  haven't  come  just  to  call,  dear  Miss  Beverly." 

"I  should  hope  not.  To  ride  from  Far  Hills  such 
a  warm  dusty  day,  doesn't  mean  a  plain  call." 

"No.  I  am — not  quite  happy,  Miss  Beverly.  I 
do  not  want  to  make  mistakes.  I  know  that  you 
have  known  Dick's  people;  I  want  to  do  all  in  my 
power  to  be — be  like  them,  if  I  can." 

"My  dear,  I  tell  you,  at  the  start,  that  that  is  im 
possible.  Besides,  I  think  Dick  married  you  because 
you  were  unlike  them.  Do  you  recall  what  I  told 
you  once — about  keeping  yourself  the  woman  that 
Dick  saw  in  you?" 

"Yes;  but — but  I've  grown,  somehow,  since  then, 
Miss  Beverly.  I  cannot  make  out  whether  I've 
grown  worse  or " 

"Better,  perhaps?"  Beverly  put  in. 

"I  do  not  know.  Things  are  out  of  joint."  Glenn 
was  ready  now,  as  the  patient  is,  to  lay  her  symptoms 
bare  to  the  practised  eye. 

"You  are  sadly  changed,  outwardly,  my  dear." 
Beverly,  too,  was  ready.  "Absence  from  home; 
your  little  girl's  illness;  it  all  has  told  on  you." 

"Oh,  Miss  Beverly,  it  isn't  that.  My  little  girl 
is  better;  if  she  lives  to  be  twelve  she  may  be  quite, 
quite  strong.  I'd  love  to  care  for  her — help  her  win 
out — but  they  will  not  let  me!" 

"Not  let  you  care  for  your  child?" 

"No;  and  I  dare  not  insist,  for  it  might  hurt  her. 


UNBROKEN  LINES  231 

If  she  were  strong  it  would  be  different."  Then, 
without  any  apparent  connection:  "Miss  Beverly, 
Constance  looks  like  her  grandfather — the  one  that 
went  to  Congress !" 

This  ought  to  have  made  them  laugh,  but  it  did 
not.  It  threw  a  lurid  light  over  a  wide  expanse. 

"Great  heavens!"  exclaimed  Beverly. 

"And — and  she's  proud  of  it,  Miss  Beverly — proud 
of  it  at  the  age  of  four.  This  may  show  you  a  little 
of  what  I  mean." 

The  circle  of  light  widened.  Beverly  Train  again 
said:  "Great  heavens!" 

"And  the  house,  Miss  Beverly;  I  cannot  feel  at 
home  there.  Do  you  know  Hannah?" 

"I  know  o/her,"  temporized  Miss  Train. 

"And  the  garden;  well,  the  garden  isn't  mine, 
either.  I — I'm  rather  lonely;  I  do  not  know  what  to 
do." 

"And  Dick — I  suppose  you  still  own  Dick?" 

At  this  Glenn  shook  her  head. 

"That's  it.  I  don't!  I  think  that  only  the 
woman  Dick  used  to  think  I  was,  owned  him — or 
the  part  he  let  her  have.  Dick  is  changed;  I  am 
changed.  Mac  used  to  say  that  I  couldn't  keep  up 
with  the  procession — and  I  cannot!"  Then  Glenn 
explained  and  smiled  a  little  sadly.  "I  don't  think 
I  want  to  keep  up,"  she  added,  "but  I'll  try — if  it's 
worth  while." 

"Worth  while?  Why,  my  dear  child,  you've  got 
to  keep  up.  You're  honour  bound." 

"Ami?" 

"Are  you  not,  my  dear?" 

They  were  fencing.     Miss  Train  felt  her  pulses 


232  UNBROKEN  LINES 

leap.      The    girl    had    mettle — -she    was    glad    of 
that. 

"I  am  honour  bound,  Miss  Beverly,  if  it  is  for  a 
good  purpose;  but  if  I  have  to  give  up  all  the  things 
that  are  sacred  and  best  to  me — for  something  that 
isn't  best  for  anybody — then  I  couldn't  call  it 
honour." 

"And  you  think  you  could  trust  your  own  inter 
pretation  of  honour,  my  dear?" 

"I — I  hope  so,  Miss  Beverly.  If  it  seemed  honour 
to  me — -then,  to  me,  it  would  be  honour!"  Very 
simply  and  firmly  Glenn  said  this.  "I  want  Dick 
and  my  child.  I  want  to  know  that  they  are  mine 
— that  they  know  I  am  theirs!  As  it  is  mow,  I  am 
just  a  person  representing  something." 

"I  am  afraid  you  will  have  to  speak  more  definitely 
child." 

"Well,  Constance  prefers  me  because  I  give  her 
something  besides  just — service.  It's  that  that  she 
clings  to.  And  Dick;  Dick  wants  me  to  be  something 
in  his  life  that  would  not  seem  quite  right  to  me, 
Miss  Beverly,  unless  love  prompted  it.  And  it  isn't 
love  with  Dick;  it's  something  that  goes  with  his 
name  and  his  money  and  his — ideal.  It  isn't  real, 
dear  Miss  Beverly.  Nothing  has  been  real  since  I 
left  my  mountains.  I'm  the  only  real  thing  left — 
and  I  do  not  fit  in." 

Then  Miss  Train  drew  Glenn  close. 

"You  have  come  to  me,  my  child,  because  you 
trust  me?" 

"Yes,  dear  Miss  Beverly." 

"Because  you  feel  that  I  can  help  you?" 

"Yes." 


UNBROKEN  LINES  233 

"Then  I  must  not  fail  you!  I  could  not  live  if  I 
failed  any  one  to  whom  I  could  give — help.  You 
want  the  truth,  my  dear?  You  can  take  it — un 
diluted?" 

"Yes— I  can."    And  Glenn  did  not  falter. 

"Then  listen;  I  might  withhold  what  I  am  about  to 
tell  you.  I  would,  from  many,  because  I  could  not 
trust  everyone.  I  know  you  will  be  just;  will  give 
more  than  you  will  ever  ask  to  be  given  to  you.  But 
for  that  very  reason  you  should  have  all  the  light, 
for  your  guiding,  that  is  possible. 

"The  Carringtons,  my  dear,  are  a  hard  line  of 
men;  their  hardness  has  made  even  their  love  and 
honour  hard.  Their  women  do  not  last  long.  Their 
children,  unless  they  are  hard  as  their  line,  die  early. 
Dick  was  the  only  one,  of  a  large  family,  who  survived. 
His  mother  died  before  she  was  forty;  she  had  been 
dying  all  the  years  of  her  married  life." 

Glenn's  face  went  white;  her  eyes  widened. 

"  Pride  of  family — pride  of  everything  Carrington 
— has  been  and  is  the  key-note  of  them  all.  In 
women  they  see — the  mothers  of  their  children.  All 
that  the  women  can  add  in  the  way  of  charm,  health, 
and  subjection  to  their  ideals,  is  that  much  gained. 
Unconsciously  the  men  see  in  their  women — a  re 
sponse  to  all  that  is  in  them.  The  line  was  growing 
thin,  my  dear.  Dick  had  all  that  was  left  of  it. 
Something  in  you  drew  forth  the  best  that  was  in 
him;  you  were  a  new  ideal.  And  so  I  warned  you 
to  keep  yourself  as  you  were.  Oh,  my  child,  if  love, 
or  suffering,  could  break  through  the  crust  of  Dick 
Carrington,  the  justice  and  good  that  are  there  would 
save  his  soul  alive!  Are  you  big  enough,  strong 


234  UNBROKEN  LINES 

enough,  child? — have  you  love  enough  to — to  beat 
down  the  barrier?" 

Glenn  was  breathing  hard. 

"I — I  do  not  know;"  she  whispered. 

"If  you  could  only  save  Dick  and  your  little  girl — 
from  the  Carringtons,  child?"  urged  Beverly. 

"But — how?"  Glenn's  tender  nature  was  reaching 
out  for  the  vague  hope  offered.  She  flung  her  late 
depression  to  the  summer  winds. 

"You  will  have  to  follow  your  own  light,  my  dear." 

"My  own  light?" 

Then  it  was  that  Glenn  remembered  her  star — her 
mother — her  father,  and  the  love  that  saved!  If 
her  father,  in  the  name  of  love,  could  take  her  mother 
and  save  her  from  her  past,  could  not  she,  her  father's 
daughter,  in  the  name  of  her  love,  defeat  those  dead 
and  gone  men  and  women  who  had  handed  down 
their  hardness,  like  a  curse?  Suddenly  the  warm 
blood  ran  quickly  to  her  face. 

"I  see,  dear  Miss  Beverly,  I  see  now  what  Dick 
meant.  I  must  do  something,  myself.  Love  has 
given  me  the  big  Chance;  my  love  must  fight  for  its 
own.  I  will  fight  for  Dick's  best  self — for  my  little 
girl;  no  one  shall  have  them!  I  will  be  the  sort  of 
woman  Dick  ought  to  have — and  love.  I'll  be  the 
kind  of  mother  to  Constance  that  can  be  trusted. 
But  first  I  must  know  myself.  And  Dick  was  right, 
there,  too,  Miss  Beverly.  This  is  no  time  for  me  to 
go  back  to  my  daddy  and  the  others;  this  is  the  time 
for  me  to  learn  to  stand  alone.  Why" — and  here 
Glenn  threw  her  head  back  joyously — "do  you  know 
— I  made  Sam  Morton  marry  Polly  Pitkins  because 
I  couldn't  bear  to  have  life  all  darkened;  and  now 


UNBROKEN  LINES  235 

there  is  Davey  to  prove  that  I  was  right.  Just  think 
of  me  letting  the  dead-and-gone  Carringtons  con 
quer — when  Dick  and  my  Constance  are  at  stake! 
If  I  could  see  clearly,  even  when  things  seemed  very 
bad,  for  Polly  and  Sam,  I  can  see  clearly  now!  How 
could  I  ever  have  lost  heart?  I  am  so  ashamed. 
I'm  not  worthy  of  what  I  have.  Polly  is  a  better 
mother  than  I  am,  Miss  Beverly — just  through  her 
love.  I've  lain  down  when  I  should  have  stood  up. 
I've  been  a  plaything  to  Dick,  when  he  should  not 
have  playthings.  If  a  woman  lets  a  man  have  of 
her  what  he  should  not  have,  then  she  should  not  cry 
out.  I  think  I  have  always  wanted  things  too  easy. 
Oh!  how  you  have  helped  me,  Miss  Beverly.  You 
have  let  my  own  light  into  me." 

Just  then,  across  the  lawn  came  Margaret  with 
the  tea  wagon.  On  it  was  a  bowl  of  exquisite 
roses. 

"These,"  said  Margaret  smiling,  "Tom  sent,  Miss 
Beverly.  They  are  a  surprise." 

"Why,  they  are  old-fashioned  bridal  roses!"  cried 
Miss  Train.  "Where  did  Tom  raise  this  particular 
kind?" 

"He  said  that  was  his  secret,  Miss  Beverly." 

"Very  well.  Let  him  keep  his  secret,  if  it  can  pro 
duce  such  beauty  as  this.  Come,  Glenn,  this  is  your 
party.  Will  you  pour  the  tea?  Plenty  of  sugar,  my 
dear,  and  do  not  skimp  the  cream.  I  take  all  the 
riches  of  life  that  I  can  get.  I  am  a  selfish  woman, 
first  and  last.  When  I  see  anything  worth  having 
I  simply — appropriate  it?" 

"And  then  pass  it  on!"  added  Glenn.  She  was 
quite  merry  now  and  little  Margaret  was  as  full  of 


236  UNBROKEN  LINES 

cheer  as  if  no  dark  and  perilous  memory  lay  back  of 
her,  around  the  curve. 

"Do  you  know,"  Glenn  suddenly  said,  looking 
over  the  brim  of  her  cup  at  Beverly,  "there  is  some 
thing  very  wonderful  about  this  garden? — I've  just 
noticed  it.  The  plants,  the  flowers  are  not — well,  noit 
such  as  grow  at  Far  Hills." 

"No.  Another  fad  of  mine!"  Miss  Train  was 
merely  sipping  her  tea  for  all  its  wealth  of  cream  and 
sugar.  "When  any  one  says  a  plant  cannot  grow  in 
Massachusetts  soil,  I  send  Tom,  my  gardener,  for  it. 
He  puts  it  in  the  ground  and — it  grows !  When  they 
tell  me  that  certain  birds  will  not  survive  in  Mas 
sachusetts  surroundings,  I  send  for  the  birds;  and 
they  stay  and  sing  for  me.  You  see,  my  dear,  since  I 
cannot  go  to  the  world,  the  world  comes  to  me." 

"Dear  Miss  Beverly!  But  you  are  going  to  my 
mountains.  Dad  has  your  particular  little  spot, 
picked  out;  he  and  Mac  are  building  the  cabin — 
with  Sam's  help  and  Davey's.  I  had  a  letter  from 
Dad  yesterday:  he  says  Davey  is  choosing  the  stones 
for  the  fireplace.  He  feels  them  all  over;  says  that 
he  sees  them.  How  beautiful  it  will  be  to  have  you 
there,  Miss  Beverly." 

"How  beautiful  it  will  be  to  be  there!"  Miss 
Train's  face  was  radiant.  "I  will  have  my  chair 
placed  close  to  Davey's  fireplace  and  then  the  dear 
child  shall  sit  by  me  and  let  me  look  through  his  eyes. 
And  at  evening,  when  the  purple  and  gold  are  partic 
ularly  fine,  I  will  wheel  out  to  the  side  porch — you 
see  I  know  all  about  it,  Glenn — and  watch  the  face 
of  the  Monk!" 

The  cup  had  long  since  been  placed  on  the  table. 


UNBROKEN  LINES  237 

Hypnotized,  Glenn  sat  and  listened  while  her  inner 
vision — beheld ! 

"And  you  will  be  there,  Glenn  child,  with  that  little 
girl  of  yours  and  Dick,  God  willing!  It  will  be  a 
great  time  for  me!" 

"And  for — me!"  The  words  came  like  a  breath. 
"Dear  Miss  Beverly,  the  mists  on  my  mountains  are 
— lifting!  I  did  not  know,  but  really  I  have  not 
seen  them  clearly  since  I  left  them — until  now." 

It  was  nearly  six  when  Glenn  rode  away.  The 
heat  of  the  day  was  broken;  the  swift-moving  auto 
mobile  sped  over  the  perfect  roads  without  jar  or  jolt, 
and  the  dignified  figure  on  the  deep,  back  seat,  sug 
gested  that  at  last  it  had  resolved  to  stay;  to  be  one 
of  the  Carringtons — with  a  difference! 

Beverly  Train  could  not  see  her  departing  guest, 
but,  with  her  thin  hand  shading  her  eyes,  she  followed 
her  in  thought. 

"God  help  her!"  she  prayed;  "but  what  have  I 
done?  Pitted  that  human,  loving  heart  against  the 
smooth  hardness  of  the  Carringtons.  She  has 
need  of  divine  help.  There  is  nothing  to  cling  to — 
no  rough  edges  to  grip — nothing,  nothing  but  smooth, 
polished  hardness.  The  child  will — fall  off!  And 
where  then  ?  Where  then  ? " 

"Come,  Miss  Beverly,  the  sun  has  set."  Margaret 
knew  every  shade  on  Miss  Train's  face — she  was 
brooding  over  the  woman  who  had  given  life  to  her. 

"Has  it  Margaret,  child?" 

"Shall  I  call  Tom,  now,  Miss  Beverly,  to  wheel 
you  to  the  house?" 

"Yes.  Go  for  him,  Margaret.  Bring  him  here, 
yourself." 


238  UNBROKEN  LINES 

When  she  was  alone,  Miss  Train  again  followed 
Glenn  who  seemed,  now  that  she  had  departed,  to  be 
so  desperately  alone. 

"And  that  child  at  four  being  glad  she  is  like  her 
grandfather!  And  he  was  such  a  terrible  old  man. 
Father  used  to  say" — here  Miss  Train  smiled,  grimly 
—  "that  it  took  all  his  spare  time  to  mend  the  souls 
of  the  men  that  Judge  Carrington  had  broken  on 
the  wheel." 

And  then  Tom  and  Margaret  drew  near;  they  were 
laughing  softly — happily.  Tom  was  big  and  freckled ; 
his  eyes  and  mouth  were  good  and  kind.  He  bent 
over  Miss  Train  as  if  she  were  something  sacred. 

"Miss  Beverly,  ma'am,"  he  said,  "I've  got  my 
girl  to  say  the  word  at  last.  Will  you  give  us  your 
blessing  and  the  promise  that  we  may  stay  along 
with  you?" 

"That  I  will,  Tom!  And  your  girl;  is  she  yours, 
Tom,  really  ? " 

"I'm  thinking  she  is,  ma'am." 

"You'd  rather  have  her  than  any  other?" 

"Sure!"     And  Tom  beamed  at  Margaret. 

"You  both  turned  the  bend  of  the  road,  Tom; 
neither  one  of  you  has  ever  gone  back.  Are  you 
willing  to  look  ahead  to  the  end?" 

"We  are  that,  ma'am!"  Then,  with  a  big  laugh: 
"Back  there,  is  bad  dreams,  ma'am — bad  dreams — 
that's  what  they  be,  and  best  forgot!" 

"And  best  forgot!"  echoed  Miss  Train,  as  her  chair 
was  wheeled  carefully  along.  "I  want  you  to  marry 
soon,  Tom.  I'm  perishing  for  some  excitement — 
selfish,  frivolous  creature  that  I  am!"  She  was  mur 
muring  to  herself:  "It  must  be  an  all-right  wedding 


UNBROKEN  LINES  239 

too — just  to  prove  now  little  we  care  for  dreams,  when 
once  we  are  awake/* 

And  while  Beverly  was  planning  Margaret's  and 
Tom's  wedding,  Glenn  reached  Far  Hills.  She  was 
radiant.  Her  rich  hair  was  blown  from  her  face; 
her  eyes  were  seeking — seeking  their  own !  Carring- 
ton  stood  on  the  wide  porch — his  watch  in  his  hand. 

"You  are  a  full  half  hour  late,"  he  said — not  un 
kindly,  not  impatiently — he  was  merely  stating  a 
fact.  "Where  have  you  been,  Glenn ? " 

"To  Miss  Train's."  The  look  implied  that  she 
had  been  to  the  Mount  of  Vision.  "  She's  so  wonder 
ful,  Dick!" 

"She's  a  strange  personality,  not  very  well  balanced 
but  certainly  interesting,"  Carrington  agreed. 

Glenn  braced  herself.  She  was  about  to  make 
her  first  launch  at  the  Carringtons — those  dead  men 
and  women  who  still  laid  their  hands  on  what  was 
hers! 

"What  did  you  and  Miss  Train  talk  about,  Glenn? 
Come — you  may  tell  me  during  dinner.  But  first" 
— he  looked  at  her — "hadn't  you  better  tidy  your 
self?" 

"No!"  Glenn  flung  off  her  hat  and  gloves.  She 
pranced — there  is  no  other  word  to  describe  her 
action — down  the  long,  wide  hall.  "I  do  not  want  to 
be  tidy,  Dick.  I'm  quite  happy  and  jolly.  Let  us 
have  our  dinner  on  the  porch.  Indoors  stifles  me.' 
Where  is  Connie?" 

The  nickname  had  never  passed  Glenn's  lips  before 
as  applied  directly  to  her  child.  Carrington  was 
looking  on  in  amazement. 

"Constance  has  gone  to  bed,  Glenn.     You  have 


24o  UNBROKEN  LINES 

forgotten  the  time.  And  dinner  on  the  porch  ?  Why 
my  dear,  the  porch  is — is  for  breakfast  only.  Again, 
you  have  forgotten  time." 

Then  Glenn  went  close  to  him — put  her  hands  on 
his  shoulders  in  that  pretty  way  she  had  of  drawing 
people  to  her. 

"I  have  forgotten  time,  Dick,  dear.  Time  and 
every  other  unpleasant  thing.  I've  come  home — 
your  own,  dear,  old  Glenn — come  home  to  my  own. 
My  own!" 

Carrington  was  not  listening  to  the  words.  He 
drew  Glenn  into  the  privacy  of  the  dim  library.  He 
saw  surrender  and  it  pleased  him. 

"My — wife!"  he  whispered;  and  he  kissed  her 
breeze-touched  hair.  "You  have  learned  to  leave 
yourself  in  my  hands,  at  last?" 

"Why,  no,  Dick  dear.  I've  learned  to  take  what 
is  my  own — into  my  own  hands." 

"And  what  is  your  own,  beloved  ?" 

"You  and  Connie  and" — Glenn  frowned  grimly — 
"Hannah,  and  the  gardener,  and — well,  all  the  rest! 
Some  of  the  things  have  got  to  go,  though,  Dick! 
They've  got  to  be  weeded  out.  My  own'is  your  own 
and  Connie's.  The  rest — whoof!" 

Carrington  held  her  close. 

"Beverly  Train  has  excited  you,  my  dear." 

"She  has — inspired  me." 

They  did  not  eat  upon  the  porch;  they  ate  very 
properly  indoors  by  tall  candle-light.  The  serving 
maid  was  too  well  bred  to  gaze  at  her  rather  ruffled 
mistress,  but  she  had  her  own  opinion! 

After,    the    rather    disjointed    meal,    Carrington 


UNBROKEN  LINES  241 

walked  and  smoked  in  the  garden,  the  old-fashioned 
garden  where  the  tall  hollyhocks  grew.  Glenn  paced, 
happily,  beside  him. 

"This  would  be  a  heavenly  place  for  little  children 
to  play  in,"  she  said,  dreamily;  "Connie  never  really 
plays.  I  suppose  it  is  because  she  has  been  fussed 
over  so  much."  > 

"Fussed  over?"  Carrington  recalled  the  price  of  the 
"fussing"  and  thought  that  it  should  be  designated 
by  a  more  dignified  name. 

"Yes.  She  ought  to  have  children  and  dogs  and — • 
and — things.  Just  plain  things.  Things  that  no 
one  can  give  her;  things  she  finds.  Didn't  you  have 
things,  Dick?" 

"I  cannot  remember  that  I  ever  had." 

"Poor  Dick!  Well,  we  must  make  it  up  to  you, 
somehow.  I  had  loads  of  things  that  I  never  told 
Daddy  about.  I  hid  them — I  don't  know  why;  bits 
of  glass  and  an  old  bottle  that  I  dressed  up  like  a  doll; 
a  picture  I  tore  from  the  Bible — I  liked  it  better  out 
of  the  Bible.  Dad  never  discovered  the  loss-  We 
weren't  much  for  the  Bible,  Dad  and  I — the  old 
ugly  part,  anyway." 

This  was  all  rather  silly,  but  amusing.  Carrington 
smoked  and  revelled  in  the  pretty  creature  at  his  side. 
This  was  what  women  should  be — a  man's  solace! 
"She  is  coming  around!"  he  thought  and  listened 
while  Glenn  prattled  on : 

"I  want  Connie  to  have  things,  Dick.  I  want  her 
to  have  children  to  play  with.  We're  keeping  her 
greatest  joy  from  her — her  childhood !  Nothing  can 
make  up  for  that  If" — here  Glenn's  eyes  grew  dim 
— "if  she  did  not  live  to  be — to  be  twelve,  Dick  I 


242  UNBROKEN  LINES 

still  would  want  her  to  know  what  it  means  to  be  a 
child.  I  wouldn't  like  to  have  her  go  back  to  God 
without  that." 

"We  can  take  no  risks  with  a  delicate  child,  Glenn. 
It  would  be  pure  madness.  And  as  for  other  chil 
dren,  you  know  my  views  as  to  that.  I  have  a  deep 
responsibility  there.  A  man  has  no  right  to  bring 
helpless  children  into  the  world — children  like  Con 
stance.  We  will  not  refer  to  this  again." 

"But  oh!  Dick,  suppose — just  suppose,  dear — 
that  we  turned  our  backs  on — on  all  the  Carringtons; 
just  let  them — go!  Then  suppose  we  lived  a  new, 
better  way,  very,  lovingly,  very  simply — helping 
other  weak  things  as  Miss  Beverly  and  Mac  do — • 
don't  you  believe,  Dick,  that  God  would — bless  us? 
We  might  adopt  children." 

Glenn  now  stood  quite  still — her  sweet  face  lifted 
to  Carrington.  "Just  let  the  Carringtons — go!" 
and  "adopt  children"  was  what  Carrington  snatched 
from  the  words.  "Adopt  children!"  He  was  posi 
tively  shocked.  Then  he  said  slowly: 

"Let  go  all  that  the  Carringtons  represent,  fought, 
and  died  for?  Why,  my  dear  girl,  you  must  be  mad 
to  talk  as  you  are  talking.  Has  Beverly  Train  been 
indulging  in  her  wild  notion  ?  Glenn ;  remember  this : 
I  do  not  cast  any  reflections  upon  you  or  yours. 
Your  splendid  physique,  your  courage,  your  possi 
bilities  are  not  to  be  despised.  The  strain  has  come 
down  pure,  and  for  that  there  should  be — gratitude, 
of  course.  But,  on  my  side  has  been  handed  down 
something  else — something  that  it  is  in  your  power 
to — to  add  to  yourself,  even  if  you  must  renounce  the 
desire  for  children." 


UNBROKEN  LINES  243 

"Add  to  myself,  Dick?  I  could  only  do  that — in 
our  children,  couldn't  I  ? " 

"No.  You  are — a  Carrington  now!  And  I  do 
not  wish  you  to  be  too  intimate — with  Beverly 
Train."  This  was  flung  out  as  an  afterthought. 

And  so,  at  the  first  attack,  Glenn  had  slipped  off 
the  srhooth,  hard  surface! 

Pitifully,  she  looked  up — not  beaten,  but  dismayed. 

"Take  me  in  your  arms,  Dick,  dear.  So!  Hold 
me  close." 

To  this  appeal  Carrington  could  respond.  He  held 
her  close — shutting,  as  he  believed,  all  else  out. 

"To  make  me  happy,  content,  proud,  would  that 
not  be  joy  enough,  to  you,  dear?"  he  whispered. 

Carrington  would  have  reeled  back  had  any  one 
suggested  to  him  that  he  and  a  famous  German 
philosopher  were  holding  the  same  views  as  to  women. 
But  they  were — with  this  difference:  the  German 
had  reduced  his  to  practical  tests,  while  Carrington 
still  veiled  his  in  sentimentality. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  days  immediately  following  Glenn's  visit 
to  Beverly  Train,  were  filled  with  sorrow. 
Constance  had  one  of  her  bad  attacks !  Doc 
tors  came  and  went;  new  nurses  took  the  place  of  the 
old;  a  hush  fell  over  the  big  house. 

Carrington  was  often  absent;  business,  he  said, 
demanded  his  attention.  Another  of  the  numerous 
strikes  was  on !  And,  as  if  that  were  not  enough,  an 
epidemic  of  fever  broke  out  among  the  "hands." 
The  hands  took  this,  as  one  might  expect,  as  another 
evil  deed  of  their  hated  Boss — the  boss  who  added  to 
his  unpopularity  by  using  Thompson  as  a  screen. 

"Why  don't  he  come  out  like  a  human?"  de 
manded  big  Mike  O'Ryan,  the  leader  among  the 
strikers.  "  Why  don't  he  come  out  like  a  human,  and 
let  us  all  have  a  fling  at  him  ?  Thompson  ain't  the 
worst.  He  don't  deserve  all  the  kick,  though  he's 
paid  for  being  the  buffer.  What  us  all  wants  is — a 
shy  at  him  on  the  hill ! " 

At  this  challenge,  Carrington  came  down  from  the 
hill — he  was  no  coward.  He  could  afford  to  pay  for 
a  buffer,  but  if  it  came  to  an  assault  he  was  ready 
to  take  what,  legitimately,  belonged  to  him.  With 
proud  uplifted  head  and  flashing  eyes  he  walked, 
actually  walked,  through  the  little  factory  town.  He 
seemed,  by  every  gesture,  to  point  to  the  handsome 
factory  buildings — the  stilled  machinery,  all  of  the 

244 


UNBROKEN  LINES  245 

most  modern  type — and  demand  that  justice  be 
done  him! 

The  wretched  homes  he  did  not  feel  were  his  con 
cern. 

"If  men  and  women  prefer  to  live  in  filth  and  dis 
order,  they  must  suffer  the  penalty  of  filth  and  dis 
order.  That  is  not  my  business/'  he  said  to  Thomp 
son,  with  a  hard  glance  of  the  eye. 

"But  they  all  pretty  much  work,"  explained 
Thompson,  "after  they  are  old  enough.  There  isn't 
as  you  might  say,  any  one  to  rightly  handle  the 
home-end." 

Thompson  was  getting  tired  of  strikes.  From  his 
watch  tower,  he  saw  a  new  dawning,  saw  men  waking 
up  to  the  meaning,  heard  a  stirring  in  the  economic 
tree  tops;  but  he  could  not  arouse  Carrington. 
Where  the  factories  were  concerned,  he  could  get  a 
response;  but  where  the  human  element  entered  in 
Richard  Carrington  was  as  dead  as  his  ancestors. 

"Somebody  will  get  hurt,"  Thompson  muttered. 
"It  is  bad  enough  when  they  hit  for  wages  and  hours; 
but  when  their  kids  die  off  like  flies  they  get  plug 
ugly." 

"And  whose  fault  is  it?"  Carrington  thundered; 
"they're  little  better  than  beasts,  Thompson,  and 
you  know  it.  Don't  they  let  their  children  work?  I 
don't  go  down  and  haul  them  in.  They  lie  about 
their  ages,  you  know  that," 

"Yes;  I  know  that/'     Thompson  admitted. 

"Well,  what  are  you  aiming  at,  anyway,  Thomp 
son?  Afraid?" 

"Good  heavens!    No!" 

"This  is  the  time  for  a  firm  hand,  Thompson.     We 


246  UNBROKEN  LINES 

have  weakened  and  weakened  until  they  think  they 
are  riding  the  horse.  If  we  win  out,  now — get  them 
in  harness  again — make  them  knuckle  down — we'll 
gradually,  without  their  realizing  it,  work  out  a 
scheme  for  removing  some  of  their  dirt,  perhaps. 
But  Thompson,  in  this  country,  we've  got  to  get  our 
hands  on  the  rein.  It's  the  duty  of  every  good 
American,  and  by  God!  I'm  going  to  do  my  share!" 

"But  they  all  claim  that  they  are  good  Americans, 
Mr.  Carrington,  that's  the  devil  of  it/' 

"All  the  more  reason  for  showing  them  what  a  good 
American  is,  then!" 

And  Carrington  walked  about  more  freely  and 
carried  his  head  higher.  The  tradition  of  "blood" 
and  authority  is  not  easily  cowed.  The  very  sight 
of  this  unafraid  man,  striding  alone  among  the  noisy, 
unruly  mobs,  held  the  mob  spirit  in  check.  There 
was  no  opportunity  to  harm  him  without  detection — 
he  saw  to  that!  and  while  they  hated;  felt,  in  a  dumb 
way  that  he  was  responsible  for  their  misery;  they 
recognized  what  he  stood  for.  Right  and  Wrong 
swayed  this  way  and  that  on  both  sides  of  the  ques 
tion,  and  the  only  people  who  could  bring  about  an 
understanding  kept  proudly,  defiantly  apart. 

At  Far  Hills,  two  miles  away,  the  Shadow  rested 
menacingly.  The  house  was  so  still;  so  empty. 
There  was  nothing  for  Glenn  to  do  but  watch  and 
wait,  apart  from  the  trained  authority  that  held 
sway  in  the  sick  room.  Carrington's  absence  was  an 
added  hardship;  the  necessity,  Glenn  did  not  under 
stand.  She  supposed  that  Thompson,  choosing  a 
difficult  time,  was  making  his  demands  again. 

With    nothing    else    to    do,    Glenn    thought    and 


UNBROKEN  LINES  247 

thought;  and  if  Satan  does  often  find  mischief  for 
idle  hands,  a  Higher  Power,  likewise,  finds  holy  deeds. 

It  was  a  little  seamstress  from  below  the  hill  who 
caught  Glenn's  ear.  She  was  mending  and  darning 
the  linens  and  laces  that,  once  a  year,  were  given 
into  her  hands.  She  was  rather  a  cheerful  little 
person,  but  easily  moved  to  tears.  She  knew  about 
the  sickness  in  the  far  wing  of  the  big  house;  she  sym 
pathetically  gazed  upon  Glenn  and  then  ventured  a 
word  of  good  will. 

"Of  course,  Mrs.  Carrington,  it  is  hard,  but  Miss 
Constance  will  get  well.  The  nurse  says  she  is  better. 

Now,  if  it  had  been  the  fever "  The  girl  paused, 

her  eyes  were  frightened  eyes. 

"What  fever?"  asked  Glenn.  She  was  glad  to 
talk  to  any  one  so  gentle  and  kindly  as  this  small 
sewing  person. 

"That   which    is   raging   down   in    Hale   Hollow, 


ma'am." 


"Hale  Hollow?     Where  is  that?" 

"Where  the  hands  live,  Mrs.  Carrington.  You 
see  they  are  quite  ignorant  and  dirty,  though  they 
can't  be  blamed  for  the  ignorance.  But  the  ignor 
ance  accounts  for  the  dirt  and — then  the  fever  just 
naturally  comes,  as  one  may  say." 

Glenn  looked  troubled. 

"I  hope  everything  is  done  for  them  that  can  be 
done,"  she  said. 

The  little  woman  withdrew  into  herself.  It  was 
not  for  her  to  point  out  how  really  nothing  was  done. 

But  Glenn,  walking  alone  in  the  garden  of  the  tall 
hollyhocks,  thought  and  thought  of  the  fever  in  Hale 
Hollow.  She  recalled  that  once,  when  she  was  a  very 


248  UNBROKEN  LINES 

little  girl,  fever  had  entered  Connor's,  and  her  father 
had  ridden  down  there  to  make  sure  that  the  people 
were  cared  for.  Glenn  had  wanted  to  go  with  him, 
but  to  that  he  had  objected.  "You  couldn't  do  any 
thing  but  catch  it,"  he  had  explained — "but  I'll  see 
that  those  children  down  there  have  a  fair  show. 
I  couldn't  look  you  in  the  face,  girl,  if  I  didn't." 

Then  Glenn  thought  of  Constance;  she  was  slowly 
emerging  from  the  Shadow.  She  thought  of  the 
nursing,  the  care,  the  love  that  protected  her  child. 

"I  believe,"  she  mused,  "that  I'll  walk  down  to  the 
Hollow  and  find  out  for  myself.  I'd  feel  a  little 
better  when  I  looked  at  Connie." 

It  was  a  warm  autumn  day  and  Glenn,  dressed  in 
her  white  linen  gown  and  simple  white  hat,  looked 
immaculate  and  fresh.  Her  face  was  thin  and  pale. 
Anxiety,  a  baffled  sense  of  defeat,  where  Carrington 
was  concerned,  had  set  their  marks  upon  her.  She 
had  lost  the  vision  of  Beverly  Train's  garden,  but  she 
still  held  to  her  resolve  to  fight  on. 

The  Hollow  was  not  difficult  to  find.  The  first 
person  she  asked,  dazedly  directed  her.  Then  he 
carried  to  groups  of  muttering  men  the  astounding 
fact:  "The  Boss's  missis  is  aiming  for  the  Hollow." 

Now  the  Hale  factories  and  purlieus  were  skill 
fully  set  apart — physically  and  spiritually — from 
Far  Hills.  The  time  is  long  past  when  men  live  close 
to  their  business.  No  one,  unless  bent  on  special 
errands,  ever  had  need  to  seek  the  Hollow.  If  a 
traveller  desired  to  see  a  model  factory  in  full  play, 
the  Hale  factory  was  What  he  should  see!  It  had 
baths,  and  a  tennis  court,  and  several  other  modern 
forms  of  blinders.  Surely,  after  witnessing  such  per- 


UNBROKEN  LINES  249 

fection,  details  would  be  impertinent.  The  Hollow 
was  a  detail. 

Out  of  the  shabby  street,  as  Glenn  entered,  came 
two  hearses,  each  bearing  two  diminutive  caskets. 
They  looked  absurdly  small,  those  last  little  beds,  to 
be  in  those  ugly  black  things.  The  carriages  were 
too  large  for  the  caskets,  just  as  the  world  had  been 
too  large  for  the  tiny  bodies  shut  away  forever  from 
sight. 

Glenn's  face  grew  paler,  sadder.  Then  she  picked 
her  way  down — always  down — the  filthy  street.  "It 
is  horrible  for  people  to  live  so;  they  should  not  be 
allowed  to  live  so.  Someone  ought  to" — she  was 
thinking  and  just  then  a  frayed  and  discoloured 
streamer  of  white  caught  her  eye,  on  the  open  door 
of  a  wretched  hovel.  A  man  stood  on  the  threshold 
— a  hard,  ugly-looking  man — and  he  was  staring 
rather  wildly  at  Glenn.  She  was  not  afraid,  but  she 
was  strangely  awed.  This  was  worse,  far  worse,  than 
Connor's.  Something  was  very,  very  wrong  here. 
She  went  up  to  the  dirty,  bearded  man. 

"Some  one  is  dead  here?"  she  asked,  softly.  "I 
have  just  heard  how  much  sickness  there  is  in  the 
Hollow.  We'd  like  to  help,  if  we  can." 

"Help!"  he  roared  the  word;  it  sounded  like  a  clap 
of  thunder;  "Help!  is  it?" 

Glenn  drew  back. 

"Is  it  your  child  who  is  dead  ?"  she  asked,  and  with 
some  dignity. 

"Yes;  it's  jis  Maggie.     What's  that — to  you?" 

"Any  child  is  something  to  me.  I  have  a  child; 
a  sick  child."  Glenn  trembled. 

"Oh!  Yer  have,  have  yer?     Well,  who  is  watchin' 


UNBROKEN  LINES 

out  for  it  while  you  are  soiling  your  pretty  togs  down 
here,  where  yer  don't  belong?" 

Glenn's  face  flushed.  Only  deep  sympathy,  and 
a  belief  that  the  rude  fellow  was  crazed  with  grief, 
held  her  to  her  desire  to  help. 

"I  want  to  do  what  I  can,"  she  pleaded,  slowly. 
"I  have  only  just  heard  how  things  are.  I'm  rather 
a  stranger  here,  you  know." 

At  this  the  man  gave  an  ugly  laugh. 

"And  they've  kept  all  from  yer,  eh?  Lord!  how 
some  one  will  catch  it,  when  they  find  that  you've 
escaped." 

"Is  there  anything  I  can — do?"  A  strange  feeling 
of  impotency  was  overawing  Glenn.  Suddenly  the 
man's  face  grew  fierce  and  crafty. 

"Yes,"  he  hissed;  "come  in  and  see  what  you 
can  do.  Maggie,  her  is  past  the  knowing;  you  can't 
help  Maggie.  But  there's  Ben  and  the  baby.  They're 
burning  up  with  hell  fever.  Come  in  and  welcome, 
and  get  the  lay  o'  the  land !  There's  plenty  to  do  in 
the  Hollow." 

Glenn  took  a  step  forward,  but  at  that  instant  a 
woman  came  from  the  rear  room  and  stood  beside 
the  man.  She  was  the  most  wretched  creature  that 
Glenn  had  ever  seen;  her  knotted  and  work-worn 
hands  were  clasped  across  her  flat  bosom,  from  which 
the  dying  lips  of  a  baby  had  drawn  the  last  drop  of 
mother-food. 

"What's  up,  Mike?"  she  asked.  And  then  her 
eyes  fell  on  Glenn. 

"Her!"  bellowed  the  man;  "she's  come  to  help — to 
help,  by  God — and  she's  going  to  get  her  chance. 
Come  on  yer  Ladyship — come  on  and  welcome!" 


UNBROKEN  LINES  251 

"Mike,  you  can't  do  this!"  The  woman's  hands 
came  from  her  aching  breast;  they  stayed  the  man. 
"You  can't  let  her  in  here,  Mike.  She  has — one  of 
her  own,  you  know!" 

"And  why,  then?  Why  not  let  her  know  to  the 
full?  Why  not  let  her  carry  the  evil — where  it  be 
longs?" 

"Mike,  Mike,  you  are  clean  mad,  man.  'Tain't 
her  doings,  and  you  know  it  well." 

"T'warn't  Maggie's  either,  you  fool,  but  Maggie 
had  to  pay.  Come  on,  my  lady,  come  on!  Stand 
back,  Kate — where's  your  manners  ? — Come  in,  come 
in,  my  lady." 

The  man  held  his  wife  back,  leaving  the  passage 
clear  for  Glenn.  She  went  forward  as  if  something 
were  daring  her  to  prove  herself. 

"Stop!"  The  woman  strained  at  the  brutal  hold 
upon  her.  "In  the  name  of  Heaven,  ma'am,  don't 
come  in.  It's  catching — it's  catching!" 

"Curse  you!"  and  with  that  the  man  flung  the 
woman  from  him.  "That's  why  we're  as  we  are — 
shielding  them  as  shouldn't  be  shielded." 

And  then  through  the  moment  of  doubt  and  fear  a 
sound  came — a  long,  strange  sound  full  of  voices  with 
a  word  now  and  then.  It  came  nearer  and  nearer;  a 
mob  of  excited  men  and  boys,  guided  by  the  man  who 
had  directed  Glenn  to  the  Hollow,  came  in  sight. 

"There  she  is!  there  she  is!     The  Missis!" 

They  came  close — stood  still — that  body  of  hu 
man  beings  with  anger,  fear,  laughter,  and  hate  on 
their  faces. 

Glenn  looked  at  them,  her  back  against  the  house. 
The  man  in  the  doorway  was  cursing  her,  cursing 


252  UNBROKEN  LINES 

everyone,  but  the  woman  was  beside  her.  Somehow 
the  dirty  little  white  streamer  had  been  caught  in 
Glenn's  hand. 

And  then,  down  the  narrow  street  came  Carrington 
and  Thompson!  The  sight  brought  back  the  blood 
to  Glenn's  cheeks;  she  breathed  once  more. 

Carrington  came  through  the  mob  with  long,  strid 
ing  gait — Thompson  was  close  behind.  The  crowd 
parted — was  deadly  still  now.  Carrington  took 
Glenn  by  the  arm. 

"How  did  you  get  here?" 

"I — I  walked  here,  Dick.  I  only  just  heard.  I 
wanted  to  help." 

"She  wanted  to  come  and  help!"  The  man  in  the 
doorway  broke  in.  His  eyes  were  flashing;  his  mouth 
curled  back  from  his  teeth.  "She's  welcome;  she's 
welcome  to  share  what  we  have.  I  gave  her  free  of 
the  house." 

Carrington  thought  Glenn  had  been  inside — his 
face  grew  hard  and  cruel. 

"O'Ryan,"  he  said  in  a  half  whisper,  "you  shall 
pay  for  this.  "I'll  send  you  to  the  penitentiary,  so 
help  me  God!" 

And  then  O'Ryan  laughed.  The  sound  was  hor 
rible  in  that  place  of  death  and  fear. 

"But  the  woman,  Dick;  she  would  not  let  me  go. 
She  kept  me  back!" 

Carrington  did  not  hear  this.  He  was  deaf  to 
anything  but  vengeance. 

"Thompson,"  he  commanded,  "go  for  the  police; 
take  that  scoundrel " 

He  got  no  further.  A  pistol  shot  rang  clear  and 
sharp  in  the  pause — and  Thompson  fell! 


"'How  did  you  get  here?' 
<"I—I  walked  here,  Dick 


I  wanted  to  help' " 


UNBROKEN  LINES  253 

"Damn  it!"  yelled  O'Ryan  from  his  place;  "you've 
got  the  wrong  man!" 

Glenn  had  never  fainted  in  her  life,  she  did  not 
faint  now,  but  her  brain  refused  to  record  further. 
She  remembered  going  away.  She  recalled  that,  in 
going,  she  pulled  the  little  white  streamer  from  the 
door;  it  was  clutched  in  her  hand.  Some  one — 
it  was  probably  she,  herself — said;  "I  am  sorry" 
And  another  voice — a  woman's — replied:  "Oh!  my 
God;  my  God!" 

And  then,  there  was  the  warm  sunlight  as  Glenn 
and  Carrington  mounted  the  hill  to  the  big  house. 
They  did  not  speak.  There  was  nothing  to  say. 
They  had  only  to  go — up  and  up ! 

A  nurse  met  them  at  the  door — a  calm-faced,  white- 
capped  girl. 

"Miss  Constance  is  much  better,"  she  said  in  a  cool, 
even  voice;  "she  wants  her  mother." 

"Mrs.  Carrington  is  ill — Constance  must  wait." 
It  was  Carrington  who  spoke,  and  his  voice,  too, 
was  cool  and  even. 

"Can  I  do  anything?"  the  girl  asked. 

Then  Glenn  recovered  herself. 

"  Dick;  if  Constance  wants  me — has  asked  for  me — 
I  must  go  to  her!"  she  asserted,  in  a  new  and  firm 
tone.  "I  will  change  my  clothes,  bathe,  make  my 
self  safe;  but  if  she  wants  me  I  must  go  to  her." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

GLENN  stayed  with  Constance  all  night. 
Through  her  own  suffering  there  glinted  a  ray 
of  brightness;  for  her  child's  demands  seemed 
to  hold  a  new,  a  finer  note.  The  little  thin  arms 
pressed  her  weakly  but  they  held  her  close. 

"Are  you  tired,  Mother?"  the  feverish  voice  whis 
pered. 

"No,  darling!"  Glenn  was  not  conscious  of  weari 
ness. 

"Then,  please  hold  me  on  your  lap.  Don't  nurses 
ever  have  laps,  Mother?" 

"Why  yes,  dear,  of  course." 

"They  say  laps  are  not  for  little  sick  girls,  but, 
Mother,  your  lap  is  so — so  resting." 

Glenn  took  the  child  defiantly;  held  her  even  when 
her  own  body  ached  from  the  new,  but  beloved  bur 
den,  laid  upon  it.  She  did  not  sleep — except  as  she 
lost  consciousness  now  and  then,  her  head  bending 
over  her  child's — but  she  thought,  thought,  thought. 
That  hour,  beginning  with  her  vague  idea  of  giving 
help  in  the  Hollow  and  ending  with  the  pistol  shot, 
seemed  to  be  the  wedge  that  drove  apart  her  ignor 
ance  and  opened  to  her  all  the  misery  and  injustice 
of  the  world. 

That  is  how  it  seemed  to  her.  She  wondered,  now 
that  she  had  looked,  why  she  had  not,  at  least,  heard 
the  call  of  all  the  suffering  and  wrong.  Abstractedly 

254 


UNBROKEN  LINES  255 

she  knew  that  it  existed.  Here  and  there  it  had 
flashed  upon  her  as  she  was  being  carried  on  by  the 
Force  that  had  uprooted  and  blinded  her.  But  that 
it  lay  at  her  doors;  that  it  rose,  as  the  black  smoke 
did,  against  her  fair  sky;  that  she,  and  hers  profited 
by  it ! — there  was  the  shame  and  the  grief. 

Day  after  day,  year  after  year,  while  she  and  her 
dearest  had  lived  in  freedom  and  happiness,  these 
others — these  wretched  ones  in  the  Hollow — had 
made  life  easy  for  her,  meanwhile  cursing  her  and 
that  which  she  represented. 

v''No!  I  do  not  represent  the  evil!"  That  is 
what  Glenn  kept  repeating.  "I  do  not  represent  the 
evil.  But  I  must  prove  it — prove  it!"  She  pressed 
Constance  close.  Had  her  child  come  to  her  with  her 
awakening?  Was  she  bringing  promise  into  the  new 
day? 

And  then,  as  morning  broke,  Glenn  saw  her  way! 
Not  alone  would  she  go  out  of  the  dark;  she  would 
go  with  her  husband  and  child! 

"You  have  shot  the  wrong  man!"  At  first  those 
words  had  stunned  her.  The  wrong  man!  Thomp 
son  had  fallen.  She  had  not  heard  whether  he  was 
dead  or  not.  And  the  curse  was  hurled  against  the 
shot  which  had  missed  its  mark.  There  was  no  doubt 
in  Glenn's  mind;  her  husband — hers — was  the  one 
man  whom  the  mob  wanted! 

Horror  followed  insensibility.  Nothing  pleaded 
for  Carrington — nothing!  In  that  blinding  awaken 
ing  Glenn  took  no  middle  course;  knew  no  mercy. 
That  misery  in  the  Hollow  had  been  permitted;  that 
men,  women,  and  children  should  have  been  forgot 
ten — left  to  death  and  suffering  and  hate — while  every 


256  UNBROKEN  LINES 

one,  with  help  at  hand,  had  stood  apart;  that  was 
enough  for  her.  Spiritually  she  was  with  them  in  the 
Hollow,  though  every  impulse  of  her  superficial  self 
revolted  from  them. 

But,  little  Constance,  in  her  new  and  strange  ap 
peal,  softened  Glenn.  By  some  magic  the  child 
pleaded  for  the  father.  Relinquishing  her  own  char 
acteristics  she  seemed  to  offer  hope  of  him.  The 
dead  Carringtons  had  made  the  hard,  cruel  wrong 
possible.  Little  by  little  the  crust  had  formed  until 
the  cry  of  suffering  could  not  penetrate;  but  love,  if 
it  were  strong  enough,  surely  love  could  triumph. 
Beverly  Train  had  said  that  it  could;  and,  now  that 
little  Constance  had  proved  it,  why,  why  should  there 
be  despair? 

And  with  this  new  courage  Glenn  faced  the 
day. 

"Can  you  spare  mother,  Connie?"  she  asked  when 
the  child,  rested  and  refreshed,  lay  back  among  her 
pillows. 

"Do  I  have  to,  Mother?" 

"Mother  has  something  important  to  do.  Don't 
you  want  to  help  me  do  it,  by  sparing  me  ? " 

"I  don't  want  you  to  go,  Mother,  but  I  can  make 
myself  spare  you.  Don't  be  long." 

"No;  mother  promises.  Kiss  me,  dear  heart." 
And  Constance  complied — rather  stiffly,  to  be  sure, 
but  readily. 

"I'm  going  to  get  well  fast,  Mother,  and  when  I 
am  quite,  quite  well,  I  want " 

"What,  dear  Connie?" 

"I — I  don't  know — but  it  seemed  in  the  night  as  if 
I  did  want  something." 


UNBROKEN  LINES  257 

"When  mother  comes  back,  you  may  remember, 
dear." 

And  then  Glenn  went  to  her  room.  She  bathed 
and  dressed  carefully.  The  marks  of  suffering  and 
sleeplessness  disappeared  under  the  touch  of  love 
and  hope;  still,  all  the  pitiful  devices  that  the  toilet 
could  add  were  resorted  to. 

Glenn  would  have  spurned  such  artifice,  had  she 
been  going  to  win  anything  for  herself — but  now! 
Why  now,  she  was  going  into  mortal  conflict  against 
Wrong.  She  was  going  to  save  her  husband  from 
the  curse  of  hardness.  Together,  in  the  name  of 
their  love  and  their  little  child,  they  would  go  on 
together! 

And  so  Glenn  went  to  her  husband. 

He  was  in  the  business  library.  It  did  not  matter; 
she  wished  that  they  could  have  been  in  the  open; 
out  under  the  lovely  autumn  sky.  But  places,  she 
insisted,  were  what  people  made  them.  The  door 
leading  to  the  library  was  of  heavy  oak;  there  was  a 
curious  knocker  on  it;  one  that  she  and  Carrington 
had  bought  abroad  because  of  its  quaint  carvings; 
it  was  a  cross  of  iron,  black  and  ancient.  Glenn  held 
it  in  her  hand  and  paused.  She  had  yet  something 
to  answer  her  soul.  Her  eyes  deepened;  her  mouth 
grew  stern.  "And  if  he  will  not  go  on  with  you — 
what  then?"  Something  questioned.  "Then  I 
must  go — alone!  I  cannot,  I  will  not  be  party  to  the 
wrong!"  Again  something  questioned:  "You  are 
prepared — to  make  the  sacrifice?  With  only  what 
you  know,  you  are  prepared  to  take  your  stand? 
And  her  soul  answered:  "I — must!" 

Then  Glenn  knocked!     The  sound  was  not  loud, 


258  UNBROKEN  LINES 

but  it  had  power  to  make  the  woman  outside  the  door, 
and  the  man  in  the  room  beyond,  start  nervously. 

"Come  in!" 

Carrington  was  standing  at  the  window  but  he 
turned  sharply  as  his  wife  entered.  He  had  been 
looking  at  the  unstained  sky.  The  factories  were 
still  empty  which  meant  not  merely  money  loss,  but 
defiance. 

Just  for  the  moment,  Glenn,  by  the  door,  wondered 
why  her  husband  had  not  sought  her  during  the 
night?  It  had  not  occurred  to  her  before — but  it 
was  strange.  Had  she  known  of  the  anger  and  re 
venge  that  had  held  Carrington  captive  during  the 
black  hours,  she  would  not  have  wondered. 

His  hate  and  sense  of  outrage  had  blotted  her  out. 
Now  that  she  was  within  his  home,  he  could  give  his 
undivided  attention  to  the  shocking  occurrences  of 
the  hour  when  she  had  wandered  forth — bent  on 
folly.  "Folly!"  he  termed  it — adding  a  cruel  ad 
jective.  With  all  else  that  he  was  enduring  he  must 
combat  the  impression,  on  Glenn,  that  her  folly  had 
evolved. 

Carrington  had  read  the  writing  on  Glenn's  face. 
He  could  not  ignore  it.  Of  course  he  could  soon 
make  her  see  things  his  way,  but  he  hated  explaining 
and  defending  his  position.  He  had  tried  to  set  his 
private  affairs  definitely  apart  from  his  business,  yet, 
with  all  his  care,  his  wife  had  blundered  in  where  she 
had  no  right  to  be  and  had  caused  untold  mischief. 

The  only  gleam  of  light  in  the  darkness  was  the 
belief  that  yesterday's  happenings  would  hasten  the 
breaking  of  the  strike.  That  shot  would  turn  public 
opinion;  an  explosion  of  any  sort  generally  did  turn 


UNBROKEN  LINES  259 

public  sentiment,  which  drew  the  line  at  violence. 
Thompson  was  not  dead;  he  would  live,  they  said; 
and  so,  after  all,  Glenn's  part  in  the  unpleasant 
episode  was  the  next  to  take  up.  And  here  she  was, 
ready  to  listen  to  reason! 

Carrington  gazed  upon  the  slight,  girlish  form  in 
its  pretty  white;  his  face  grew  calmer  as  he  noted  how 
fresh  and  sweet  she  looked. 

"My  darling!"  he  said,  crossing  over  to  her,  "to 
think  that  you  should  have  witnessed  that  horror — • 
you!" 

Now  that  he  was  near  Glenn,  Carrington  felt  re 
lief.  She  might  have  been  made  ill  by  the  excite 
ment.  The  knowledge  that  she  was  not  going  to 
complicate  the  situation  by — scenes,  softened  his 
attitude  toward  her.  Her  youth  and  beauty  touched 
the  only  emotion  that  he  had  ever  permitted  to 
escape  his  control. 

"My  beloved!"  he  whispered  and  almost  drew  her 
within  his  arms — but  not  quite! 

At  that  moment  Glenn  shrank  back.  It  was  a 
recoil  and  it  startled  Carrington. 

"I'm  glad  that  I  saw,"  Glenn  said.  "You  see, 
I  might  never  have  known  if  I  hadn't  gone.  I  think 
God  took  the  only  way  with  me — to  make  me  know!" 

"You  are  overwrought,  my  dear.  Do  not  let  us 
talk  about  it  now — as  soon  as  Constance  can  be 
moved — we  will  go  away  and  forget  it  all." 

"Go  away!  Forget  it!  No,  no!  We  will  stay 
right  here  and  remember  it  until  it  is  all  wiped  out! 
Why,  Dick;  think,  dear,  think.  They  are  our  peo 
ple,  ours!  They  give  us  all  we  have,  and  they  ask 
so  little;  and  yet  we  have  let  them  become — like 


26o  UNBROKEN  LINES 

that!"  With  a  tragic  gesture  Glenn  pointed  out  of 
the  window — and  down,  down ! 

Carrington's  jaws  set  as  they  always  did  when  sen 
timent  invaded  business.  He  did  not  know  how  to 
approach  that  small,  white  thing  near  him.  Thomp 
son  and  other  meddlers  were  different. 

"Of  course,  child,"  he  said,  presently,  "you  do  not 
know  what  you  are  talking  about;  the  shock  has,  very 
naturally,  swung  you  into — into  space.  You  must 
trust  me.  Why,  little  girl,  you  make  me  laugh. 
Do  you  know  what  you  are  up  against?  You  are 
beating  your  poor  little  heart  and  brain  against  a 
very  unpleasant,  but  an  age-old  condition." 

"Perhaps" — and  Glenn's  eyes  darkened — "per 
haps  I  am;  but  if  I  can  make  only  a  little  dent,  it's 
worth  trying  for.  Besides,  I've  got  to  and  I  want 
you  to  help  me,  Dick.  I  want  you  to  help  me  to 
understand,  of  course;  but  in  the  end  we  must  do 
something." 

"Help  you  to  understand?  Help  you — to  do 
something?"  No  wonder  Glenn  made  Carrington 
stare.  He  thought  she  was  mentally  unbalanced.? 

"Yes;  we  must  clean  up  that  Hollow;  take  hate 
out  of  those  men's  hearts;  make  the  women  bless  you, 

instead  of — of  cursing  you;  save  the  children " 

She  got  no  further.  Carrington  raised  his  hand. 

"If  you  are  ill,  you  must  have  attention.  If  not, 
I  forbid  you  to  talk — even  to  think — as  you  are  now 
doing." 

"I  am  not  ill,"  Glenn  said,  slowly;  and  she  sat 
down  in  Thompson's  chair  with  a  finality  that  was 
alarming.  There  was  no  transitory  suggestion  about 
her  now.  She  implied  a  definite  state  of  affairs  that 


UNBROKEN  LINES  261 

defied  opposition.  "And  you  may  forbid  me  talking, 
Dick,  but  you  cannot  forbid  me  thinking.  Perhaps 
it  would  be  best  for  you  to  know  what  I  think  be 
fore " 

"Before — what?"  demanded  Carrington,  who  sat 
on  the  edge  of  the  desk. 

"Before  we  go  any  further." 

Then  was  Carrington's  opportunity — his  one,  and 
last,  great  chance.  Could  he  have  reasoned  with  the 
quivering,  hurt  brain  of  the  girl;  could  he  have  told 
her  that,  in  another  way,  the  weary  world  was  awak 
ening  to  the  truth  that  had  stuck  her  so  violently — • 
that  it  was  reaching  out,  slowly,  cautiously,  to  read 
justment — all  would  have  been  well.  She  would 
have  recognized  his  need  of  her,  her  need  of  him;  and, 
though  she  might  have  had  to  abdicate  the  absolute 
stand,  she  could  have  gone  with  him  on  his  slower, 
saner  way. 

But  Carrington  could  not  avail  himself  of  his  op 
portunity.  First,  because  to  admit  that  would  have 
been  to  admit  that  he  was  not  in  the  line  of  progress. 
Only  superficially,  legally,  was  he  falling  into  step — 
all  his  instincts  were  against  it.  And  again,  he  did 
not — would  not — admit  a  woman,  his  wife  least  of 
all,  into  that  kingdom  over  which  he,  and  them  like 
him,  must  rule  supreme! 

All  the  subtle  dangers  of  the  age  seemed  to  be  rep 
resented  by  that  little,  defiant  creature  in  the  swivel 
chair;  but  most  of  all — Sex  was  menaced.  Sex  and 
all  it  stood  for,  in  Carrington's  code.  Such  situa 
tions  are  not  new.  They  are  the  blaze  marks  along 
the  trail  of  time.  Man  and  woman  contesting  the 
right  of  way  over  what  belongs  to  both! 


262  UNBROKEN  LINES 

4 

"Glenn;  we  must  now,  and  for  all  time,  under 
stand  each  other!" 

"Yes,  Dick;  that  is  why  I  am  here." 

"What  you  ask  is — is  impossible!  It  would  be  the 
greatest  wrong  we  could  do  those  people  in  the  Hol 
low,  even  if  we  attempted  it."  Carrington  sought 
to  be  just;  believed  that  he  was.  "They  must  hew 
their  way  up;  no  one  can  do  that  for  them.  The 
more  you  do  for  them  the  more  you  brutalize  them. 
You  saw  that — yesterday.  Thompson  with  a  bullet 
in  his  hip  is  proof  of  it.  Thompson  was  their  friend; 
see  how  they  appreciate  him!" 

"They — they  did  not  mean  to  shoot  Thompson; 
they  meant  to  shoot  you.  You;  are  you  their  friend, 
Dick?"  Glenn's  eyes  were  growing  dark. 

"Their  friend?"  Carrington  sneered.  The  idea 
was  revolting.  "Glenn;  we  will  not  discuss  such  a 
question." 

"We  must,  Dick;  or  I  must  draw  my  own  conclu 
sions.  I  want  to  be  their  friend,  Dick.  I  can  under 
stand  them.  You  see" — she  said  this  simply  but 
with  proud  dignity — "I  come  from  the  common  peo 
ple — just  plain  folks.  You  come  from  the  other 
kind.  Oh!  Dick,  in  the  night  I  thought  that  perhaps 
God  had  let  us  love  each  other,  so  that,  together, 
we  might  find  a  way  to  help  those  poor  creatures  in 
the  Hollow." 

Carrington  was  not  listening,  but  when  there  was 
a  pause,  he  spoke  aloud  his  own  thoughts. 

"Why  even  if  your  ridiculous  ideas  could  sway  me, 
child,  I  would  have  to  remember  the  greater  duty  I 
owe  to  my  fellow-men;  men  of  wealth  and  brains,, 
who  have  made  this  country  what  it  is!" 


UNBROKEN  LINES  263 

"What  is  it?"  Glenn  suddenly  interjected.  The 
question  had  an  ugly  effect  upon  Carrington.  It 
forced  him  to  recognize  the  rebel  in  the  chair. 

"What  is  it?"  he  repeated.  "What  is  it?  It  is 
your  country  and  mine.  The  greatest  on  earth. 
Have  you  anything  to  compain  of?  You?  And  do 
you  think  I  am  going  to  permit  my  wife" — Carring 
ton  was  dissociating  the  strange  being  in  his  swivel 
chair  from  the  wife  of  his  making — "to  make  a  laugh 
ing  stock,  a  disgrace  of  herself  and  me?  Do  you 
think  I  am  going  to  permit  you  to — to  act  the  fool? 
I  will  not  argue  this  thing  further.  I  am  shocked 
beyond  words  at  your  attitude.  I  would  not  have 
believed  it  possible!" 

Then  as  such  moods  sometimes  come  in  the  most 
troubled  hours,  Carrington  softened. 

"You  love  me,  Glenn,  do  you  not?"  he  asked,  and 
his  lips  actually  trembled. 

Glenn  gazed  up  at  him.  The  sudden  change  took 
her  unaware;  appealed  to  her  mercy — her  old  belief 
in  him.  She  was  so  mentally  tired,  too — so  near  the 
end  of  her  endurance — that  she  was  tempted,  as 
women  often  are,  in  the  name  of  love.  How  easy 
it  would  be  to  let  go! — to  fall  into  his  arms— ^accept 
all  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth  from  him — fling  all 
responsibility  upon  him!  She  was  his  wife;  bore  his 
name;  held  his  honour  in  her  hands.  To  defy  him 
would  mean  to  abandon  him — leave  him  alone  to 
face  the  disgrace  he  most  dreaded.  She  owed  him 
so  much — so  much;  the  beautiful  things  of  life,  the 
ease,  the  luxury.  No  one  would  blame  her;  she  was 
his  wife;  her  duty 

And  then,  with  yearning  and  soul  weariness  tempt- 


264  UNBROKEN  LINES 

ing  her,  Glenn  bent  her  head!  Carrington  sprang 
to  her: 

"Beloved!"  he  whispered,  passionately. 

"No!"  Glenn  stood  up.  She  warded  Carrington 
off.  "I  see,  now,  what  it  all  means;  what  you  mean; 
what  I  mean.  Those  people  in  the  Hollow  mean 
only  money  to  you,  Dick.  They  mean — something 
else,  to  me.  Something  I  dare  not  forget.  And  I — 
up  here,  Dick — I  mean  pleasure  to  you;  a  thing  to 
come  to  and  play  with — when  there  is  time!  I 
mean — I  must  mean  something  else  or  I  could  not 
love  you  and  I  would  despise  myself!  I  know  that  I 
am  ignorant,  but  what  I  saw  yesterday  is  a  wrong. 
I  may  not  be  able  to  help  much,  but  IVe  got  to  try. 
I  cannot  forget.  You  owe  more  to  those  people 
than  you  owe  to — to  the  thing  you  call  business. 
They  are  yours,  no  matter  what  you  say.  We  can 
help,  in  our  own  little  place,  even  if  the  big  world 
cannot  understand  at  first;  it  will  by-and-bye.  Dick, 
Dick — let  me  keep  you  and  my  honour!" 

Carrington  was  white  with  rage. 

"How  dare  you  profane  all  that  is  holy?"  is  what 
he  said  in  words;  but  his  expression  disowned  her! 

"Because  it  is  the  truth,  that  is  why  I  say  it!" 
Glenn  was  like  marble  now. 

"It  is  a  lie.  Some  one,  Beverly  Train  probably, 
has  put  these  monstrous  ideas  in  your  brain.  You 
could  never  have  got  them  by  yourself.  You  do  not 
realize  what  you  have  said,  but  I  tell  you,  Glenn,  you 
have  uttered  words,  in  the  last  few  moments,  of  which 
any  decent  woman  would  be  ashamed.  Now  you 
must  listen  to  me.  I  have  rights,  thank  God,  that 
you  must  respect.  In  the  eyes  of  the  law  you  are 


UNBROKEN  LINES  265 

mine!  And  since  you  are,  I  shall  protect  what  is 
mine — defend  it  from  your  mad  and  ignorant  as 
sault.  I  do  not  overlook  that  you  are  overwrought 
and  have  been  played  upon  by  some  one  madder 
than  yourself.  I  am  going  away  on  business.  You 
will  have  time  to  get  control  of  yourself  and  come  to 
reason,  but  for  your  guidance,  while  I  am  gone,  I 
must  insist  upon  certain  things.  You  are  to  remain 
quietly  here.  You  are  not  to  see,  nor  communicate 
with  Beverly  Train.  I  do  not  intend  to  have  my 
family  honour  tampered  with  by  any  one  and  the 
sooner  we  all  recognize  that  the  better!" 

Glenn  was  deadly  calm. 

"All  right,  Dick,"  she  said,  slowly,  "Good-bye." 

The  telephone  rang  just  then  and  Carrington 
turned  to  it.  That  message  had  power  to  drive 
lesser  things  from  sight. 

"This  must  be  good-bye,"  he  said  with  annoyance; 
"I  must  leave  at  once." 

Then,  from  force  of  habit  and  because  he  believed 
that  he  had  disposed,  finally,  of  all  nonsense,  he  came 
to  Glenn  in  quite  the  old  way. 

"Good-bye.  Be  a  good  little  girl.  Remember 
you  are "  He  was  about  to  kiss  her! 

"Don't  touch  me,  please,"  Glenn  said;  and  she 
pushed  Carrington  away. 

"I  didn't  know  that  you  had  such  a  surly  streak 
in  you,  Glenn.  I'm  surprised  and  a  bit — ashamed, 
child!"  he  said,  majestically.  "You  are  going  to 
let  me  go  away — go  to  the  doing  of  a  very  difficult 
and  hard  thing — without — a  kiss?" 

"Yes.  Good-bye."  As  she  spoke  Glenn  passed 
from  the  room. 


266  UNBROKEN  LINES 

An  hour  later  Carrington  went  to  give  his  evidence 
against  the  strikers. 

Glenn  went  to  Constance.  She  was  quiet  and 
smiling.  Her  eyes  gladdened  when  the  child  turned 
to  her  eagerly. 

"Miss  Constance  is  much,  much  better,"  said  the 
nurse.  "Temperature  and  pulse  normal.  She  has 
eaten  a  good  breakfast,  too." 

"She  ought  to  be  able  to — to  travel  before  long?" 
Glenn  looked  eager,  but  controlled. 

"Oh!  yes.  Mr.  Carrington  said  he  wanted  her  to 
have  a  change  as  soon  as  it  was  safe.  The  doctor 
says  in  ten  days  at  the  farthest — she  may  go.  Chil 
dren  respond  so  soon." 

"I — I — don't  want  to  go  away!"  whined  Con 
stance.  "I  like  it  here.  I  haven't  got  enough  of 
it— yet." 

"But — if  you  went  with — with  mother,  Connie?" 

Then  Constance  said  one  of  those  things  that  make 
children  often  seem  so  weirdly  uncanny.  She  beck 
oned  Glenn  to  her,  pushed  her  hair  back  from  her  ear, 
and  whispered: 

"With  you — alone,  Mother?  Not  even  father  or — 
or  these?"  She  looked  quickly  toward  the  nurses 
who  were  comparing  charts. 

"Just — mother — alone!"     Glenn's  heart  beat  fast. 

"I'd  like" — here  Constance  whispered  softly — 
"I'd  like  to  see — your  folks,  Mother.  The  ones  that 

didn't  have  their  pictures  taken.     Once  father  told 

~,«         " 
me 

"What,  Connie?" 
"It  was  a  secret." 
"Very  well,  then." 


UNBROKEN  LINES  267 

"But  maybe  some  day  it  will  not  be  a  secret.  Then 
I'll  tell  you. 

"But  can  this,  this  going  away  be  a  secret, 
Mother?" 

"Yes,  oh!  yes,  Connie — a  sure  one." 

During  the  next  week  Glenn  longed  for  Beverly 
Train  but  she  did  not  go  to  her,  nor  did  she  write. 

"It  must  be  a  sure  secret,"  she  said  to  herself. 
And  her  eyes  grew  sad  and  weary. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THERE  had  been  a  mountain  storm.     One  of 
those  sudden  downpourings  of  water  that  are 
so  unlike  the  ordinary  rain  of  the  lowlands. 
Then  had  come  the  wonderful  clearness.     The  moun 
tain  peak  stood  out  sharp  against  the  blue  and  seemed 
to  draw  near  and  become  friendly. 

The  Monk  was  in  high  glee.  His  white  plume 
stretched  in  waving  grandeur  behind  him;  The 
Twins  and  the  Lily  shone  in  the  late  afternoon  sun 
and  even  the  Giant's  Tooth  was  less  unlovely  than 
usual. 

"Soon"  Arnold  said,  "comes  my  girl's  birthday. 
God !  Mac,  I  don't  seem  to  be  able,  this  year,  to  do 
without  her." 

Grey  had  eaten  his  evening  meal  at  the  Lodge. 
Arnold,  at  times,  worried  him.  There  was  a  new,  a 
thin  line  about  the  mouth.  The  hair  at  the  temples 
was  quite  white. 

"Perhaps  we'd  better  send  word  for  her  to  come," 
Grey  suggested. 

"Lord!  Mac,  she  might  think  I  was  sick.  I'm 
not  sick;  I  never  was  better.  Glenn  has  enough  to 
stand  as  it  is.  It  doesn't  seem  right,  for  such  as  she, 
to  have  an  ailing  child." 

"The  Carringtons  have  always  had  a  lot  of  weak 
children."  Grey  said  this  as  if  it  ought  to  be  a  com 
fort. 

268 


UNBROKEN  LINES  269 

"It's  a  thing  we  ought  to  have  known — long  ago," 
muttered  Arnold,  with  a  vague  groping  that  he  could 
not  put  into  explicit  words.  "When  Carrington  told 
me  of  all  his  belongings,  he  should  have  included 
this." 

Grey  drew  his  brows  into  a  pucker  and  sought  to 
be  just. 

"Many  of  them,  the  Carrington  youngsters,  just 
flicker  out;  the  families  are  rarely  large.  Dick  man 
aged  to  put  up  a  stiff  fight,  and  he  won  out.  He  cut 
loose  from  the  fussing  and  puttering;  he  just  wouldn't 
be  held  down;  he  survived.  At  school  and  college 
he  put  up  the  bravest  sort  of  face.  He  was  pure 
pluck." 

"Umph!"  muttered  Arnold.  He  did  not  want  to 
be  unjust  to  his  son-in-law,  but  it  irritated  him  to 
hear  anything  in  his  favour.  He  disliked  being 
obliged  to  consider  him  in  any  sense.  "We  haven't 
had  a  letter  for  a  couple  of  weeks,  Mac."  Arnold 
referred  to  Glenn.  Carrington,  of  course,  never 
wrote. 

"No,  we  haven't.  But  Sam's  due  to-morrow. 
Unless  the  rain  has  cut  the  trail  up  too  much,  he'll 
be  here." 

"We'll  see  what  the  mail  brings,"  Arnold  pulled 
out  his  pipe;  "after  that  we'll  have  another  pow 
wow." 

"I'll  sleep  over  here,  if  you  say  so,  Arnold."  Grey 
wanted  to  write  in  his  cabin,  but  Arnold  tugged  at 
his  friendliness. 

"No,  no!  Shucks,  Mac;  I'm  all  right.  Go  and 
spin  out  your  yarns.  I'm  just  getting  old,  I  reckon. 
Had  my  own  way  too  much.  Always  someone  stand- 


270  UNBROKEN  LINES 

ing  handy  to  pass  out  the  sweet  stuff  when  I  cry. 
Good  Lord!  boy,  if  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst, 
I  can  get  down  to  my  girl!  If  Mr.  Carrington's 
house  isn't  big  enough  for  me,  I  have  the  price  of  a 
hotel  bill.  Come  spring,  I  don't  know  but  what 
I'll  travel  down  with  you,  Mac,  and  sniff  the  low 
lands.  We  might  bring. the  whole  shooting  match 
up  with  us  for  the  summer.  Miss  Train's  cabin  is 
ready  for  her.  She  ought  to  come." 

"Big  idea,  Arnold;  big  scheme.  We'll  do  it!  And 
now,  old  man,  turn  in  early." 

"Maybe,  maybe,  Mac;  but  if  I  don't,  I'll  be  sitting 
here — smoking  and  thinking." 

Grey  went  to  his  cabin.  The  evening  dropped 
down  early  over  the  peaks.  It  was  a  starry  evening; 
the  heavens  were  full  of  the  light  of  the  stars,  and  a 
hush  had  followed  the  storm. 

The  fire  upon  the  hearth  was  bright  and  the  living 
room  was,  at  last,  to  Grey's  taste.  Books,  papers, 
and  a  few  good  pictures,  caught  the  eye  at  once. 
Couches,  chairs,  and  rugs  added  to  the  comfort  of  the 
home-like  place.  The  long,  narrow  table  near  the 
south  window  was  littered  with  the  fruits  of  Grey's 
recent  labours.  Among  the  drifts  of  paper  was  a 
photograph  of  Glenn,  taken  before  her  child's  birth, 
and  while  life  seemed  still  a  dream  to  her. 

Grey  sat  down  to  his  table.  For  a  few  minutes  he 
indulged  himself;  he  gazed  upon  the  face  of  the 
woman  for  whom  he  had  learned — control.  She 
would  always  be  the  one  big  thing  to  him;  and,  be 
cause  of  that,  she  came  first.  He  had  never  got  in 
her  way;  he  never  meant  to.  But  he  meant — and 
here  he  muttered  the  oath:  "So  help  me  God" — 


UNBROKEN  LINES  271 

to  be  ready  should  she  need  him!  He  had  a  strange 
impression  that  she  needed  him  now — needed  him  so 
that  she  dared  not  write. 

It  was  eight  o'clock  when  Grey  began  his  work. 
He  was  not  conscious  of  time  after  that  until  some 
thing  startled  him.  He  glanced  at  the  small  time 
piece  on  the  table — it  was  eleven  o'clock! 

He  had  left  his  door,  as  always,  open  to  the  night — 
he  had  meant  to  keep  an  eye  on  Arnold's  bedroom 
window.  He  turned  suddenly,  and  there,  close  to 
the  door  way  but  just  outside,  stood  Glenn! 

Her  clothing  was  mud-splashed;  her  face  very 
white;  her  hands  were  pressed  over  her  mouth  as  if 
to  hold  back  all  the  surging  words  that  might  express 
her  emotions.  The  eyes  told  the  story,  though ! 

"Come  in!"  Grey  simply  gasped  the  words. 
Then  he  went  forward  and  took  her  hands  into  his 
and  led  her  to  the  hearth.  The  shock  had  given  him 
alertness;  it  had  not  dulled  a  single  sense. 

"Glenn;  I'm  not — not  mad,  am  I?" 

"No,  no  Mac!  You're  the  blessedest,  safest  thing 
I've  seen " 

"Now,  then,  child,  that's  settled!  Keep  quiet. 
Your  father  mustn't  see  you,  just  as  you  are  now. 
You're  rather — well,  startling,  my  dear!  See,  I'll 
shake  you  up  an  eggnog — and  here  are  some  bis 
cuits.  Lord!  Glenn,  but — it's  great  to  have  you 
back."  Getting  into  action  steadied  Grey.  He  was 
so  alarmed  that  he  dared  not  take  time  to  think. 

Glenn  sank  into  the  easy  chair  by  the  hearth  and 
shivered. 

"Don't  close  the  door!"  she  suddenly  cried  when 
Grey  went  toward  it;  "don't,  don't!" 


272  UNBROKEN  LINES 

"Want  air?  What  in •  Who  brought  you  up 

from  Connor's  ? " 

"Sam.  He  didn't  want  to — I  made  him.  He 
was  going  to  wait  until  to-morrow,  but  I  made  him 
come — to-day." 

"Where  is  he?"  Grey  feared  he  had  gone  to  the 
Lodge. 

"He's  gone  up  to  Polly  and  Davey.  He  will  bring 
the  mail  to-morrow.  It  can't  matter — about  the 
mail." 

"No,  of  course  not — now  that  you  are  here!" 

The  mail  seemed  to  be  something  tangible  to  talk 
about. 

"There  wasn't  much  anyway,  Sam  said." 

"It  will  keep!"  Grey  was  shaking  the  cup  des 
perately  and  watching  Glenn  in  a  dazed  way  that 
bewildered  her.  "See,  Glenn,  drink  this!"  Grey 
held  the  rich,  foamy  drink  to  her  lips.  "It  will  set 
you  up,  child." 

She  leaned  back  against  his  arm;  she  let  him  hold 
the  glass  and  as  she  looked  at  him — the  tears  rolled 
down  her  pale,  thin  face.  Then  as  the  blood  began 
to  course  warmly  in  her  veins,  she  half  sobbed : 

"It's  all  over,  Mac,  dear — the  dream!" 

"Don't  talk  now,  Glenn." 

"I  must,  Mac.  I  must  tell  you.  Then  I'll  go  to 
Daddy.  You'll  go  with  me — to  him — won't  you  ? " 

"Yes,  of  course.  Now  be  quiet  until  you  can 
think  straight,  Glenn." 

"Why,  Mac,  dear,  I  am  thinking  straight.  It 
took  me  years  to  do  it,  but  I  can  do  it — now."  Then, 
after  a  pause :  "  Suddenly  I  saw  that  I  did  not  love — 
Dick!  The  thing  in  me  that  had  loved  him  died; 


UNBROKEN  LINES  273 

or  else,  he  never  was  what  I  thought  he  was.  All  at 
once  he  stood  out  clear — clear  as  the  peaks.  After 
that — I  had  to  come.  I  would  have  died,  Mac,  or 
gone  mad,  if  I  had  stayed.  It  is  over!  Quite  over!" 

Grey  saw  and  felt  that  it  was.  On  this  meagre 
evidence  he  was  convinced.  He  assumed  a  new  at 
titude.  He  no  longer  sought  to  soothe  the  weary 
woman  on  his  arm.  He  was  not  conscious  even  of  his 
old  love  for  her — he  was  merely  standing  beside  her; 
saving  her,  protecting  her,  not  permitting  her  to 
be  her  lesser  self. 

"Glenn,  dear  girl,  I  see  that  something  big  has 
happened  to  you;  but  you  are  not  fit  to  decide  now. 
A  rest  up  here,  time  to  get  an  all-round  view;  that's 
what  you  need.  But  good  Lord !  Glenn,  you're  not 
the  woman  to  desert  your  child,  no  matter  what  Dick 
has  been  ass  enough  to  do." 

"No — oh!  no!  I  couldn't  ever  do  that,  Mac. 
Why  I'm  just  beginning  to  get  Connie.  I  couldn't 
of  course — desert  her!"  Glenn  smiled  bravely. 

"Of  course  not!"  said  Grey,  drawing  a  sigh  of 
relief. 

"I — I  brought  Connie  with  me!" 

"What? — what  did  you  say,  Glenn?"  Grey  with 
drew  his  arm,  gently.  Glenn  looked  up  at  him. 

"I  brought  Connie  with  me.  She's  on  the  porch. 
She  was  so  tired;  I  wrapped  her  close — she's  sleeping. 
I  had  to  come  alone  to  you,  Mac — just  at  first — and 
Connie  is  safely  sleeping." 

"My  God!"  The  words  escaped  the  tightening 
lips.  This  juggling  with  the  mighty  things  of  life, 
in  such  crude  fashion,  almost  took  away  Grey's 
breath. 


274  UNBROKEN  LINES 

"Did— Dick— know?"  he  gasped. 

"He  was  away.  I  just — came.  I  had  to,  Mac 
before  he  got  back.  You  know  when  you've  come 
to  the  end — have  finished  and  there  is  nothing  more 
to  say — it's  useless  to — to  go  all  over  it  again." 

Against  this  elemental  regard  of  all  that  was 
deemed  holy  and  accomplished,  Grey  could  not 
prevail. 

"Let  us  get  Constance,"  he  urged,  in  quite  as 
simple  and  primitive  a  way  as  Glenn  had  spoken. 

He  put  out  his  hand  to  steady  Glenn  as  she  rose 
to  her  feet.  It  all  seemed  like  a  nightmare,  but  it 
must  be  got  through,  somehow. 

There  was  a  deep,  wide  couch  on  the  porch;  often 
Grey  slept  out  of  doors.  The  pillows  and  blankets 
were  still  left  ready;  and  among  them,  sat  Constance. 
She  had  awakened  from  her  sleep  of  exhaustion  and 
was  rigidly  inspecting  her  surroundings  with  deep, 
silent  awe.  This  trip  with  her  mother,  had  upset  all 
the  ideals  and  ideas  of  her  life.  Nothing  now  sur 
prised  her. 

"Connie,  this  is  Uncle  Mac.  Look,  dear!  And 
— and  this  is  mother's  home,  at  last." 

Constance  turned  her  great,  dark  eyes  on  Grey. 
She  gave  the  impression  of  curtseying.  She  would 
have  done  so  had  she  been  on  her  feet. 

"Say: 'Uncle  Mac,' dear." 

"Uncle  Mac,"  the  thin,  tired  voice  repeated. 
Then:  "I'm  very  hungry." 

Grey  took  the  little  child  in  his  arms,  and  followed 
Glenn  into  the  house.  He  closed  the  door  after  him 
— there  was  no  reason  for  leaving  it  open  now! 

"What  can  we   give  her  to   eat?"   Grey  asked, 


UNBROKEN  LINES  275 

after  depositing  his  frail  burden  in  the  chair  by  the 
hearth. 

"What— do  they  give  Davey?"  Glenn  had  felt 
the  responsibility  of  Constance's  food  more  than  any 
thing  else,  on  the  trip. 

"Milk  and  eggs" — Grey  recalled  Davey 's  simple 
fare  with  relief — "and  toast." 

And  then  he  set  to  work,  eagerly,  to  prepare  the 
meal;  action  helped  to  clear  his  mind.  Presently 
he  was  able  to  laugh,  as  he  saw  the  child  in  the  chair, 
watching  his  every  move. 

Constance  ate  what  was  put  before  her,  solemnly 
and  daintily,  then  she  thanked  Grey  for  what  he  had 
done,  with  the  grace  of  a  woman.  Later,  she  fell 
asleep.  Grey  laid  her  upon  his  bed  in  the  inner  room. 
Then  he  went  to  the  window;  dimly  he  saw  Arnold 
— still  sitting  by  his  own  fireside — and  smoking. 

"Glenn" — Grey  turned  to  her;  "I  think  we  must 
go  to  your  father." 

"I'm  ready,  Mac." 

They  passed  silently  across  the  dividing  space  be 
tween  the  houses.  They  went  in  unannounced  to 
Arnold.  He  turned  when  he  heard  the  steps;  he  was 
standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room  when  they  entered. 
The  lamp  was  still  burning;  the  fire  was  dying  down. 

Glenn  did  not  speak.  She  only  stood  and  looked — 
hungrily,  thirstingly — at  her  father;  and  he  looked 
at  her  as  if  seeing  her  in  his  sleep. 

All  the  change  in  her,  the  broken  look  of  her, 
rushed  forward  and  met  his  aching  love  for  her, 
sharpening  it  until  like  a  blade,  it  flashed  into  speech. 

"May  God  Almighty  deal  with  him  and  his  as  he 
has  dealt  with  mine!" 


276  UNBROKEN  LINES 

The  sorrow,  the  passion,  the  agony  of  Arnold  called 
to  something  in  his  girl  that  had  been  all  but  killed. 
His  want  of  her,  his  fear  for  her,  were  the  first  needs 
of  her  strength  and  tenderness  that  had  reached 
her  since  she  left  him. 

The  pallor  softened  in  her  cheeks;  her  dull  eyes 
grew  bright  and  compassionate.  She  rushed  to  him 
and  clung  to  him  as  though  saving  him  from  a  devas 
tating  blow. 

"Daddy  darling!  Don't,  don't  take  me  so  hard. 
It's  all,  all  right  now.  I  had  to  find  my  trail,  dear,  just 
as  I  did  on  the  Twins,  so  long  ago.  You  remember, 
Daddy?  I  left  you;  you  could  not  see  me.  I  found 
my  own  trail — but  I  came  back!  I  came  back!" 

Then  Arnold  folded  her  close.  Folded  her  and 
himself  away  from  the  cursed  thing  that  had  harmed 
her.  He  crooned  over  her — disregarding  Grey.  He 
whispered  words  of  love  over  her,  but  would  not  let 
her  speak  a  word  of  explanation.  No  thought  of  law 
or  conventions  entered  his  mind.  His  girl,  he  knew 
full  well,  would  not  desert  a  duty  while  hope  lived 
in  her.  If  hope  had  been  killed — then  she  had  done 
the  right  thing;  she  had  found  her  way  back! 

"And  the  child?"  he  asked  at  last.  "The  child, 
my  girl  ? " 

Then  it  was  that  Grey  turned  and  left  the  room. 
He  came  back  presently  with  the  sleeping  Constance. 

Arnold  looked  at  the  small,  refined,  dark  face.  He 
tried,  Heaven  knew,  to  find  one  trace  of  Glenn — 
of  anything  of  his — in  it,  but  failed.  He  saw,  as 
very  few  others  ever  had  seen — Richard  Carrington! 

"God  help  her!"  he  exclaimed.  Then:  "She's 
young,  Glenn,  very  young." 


UNBROKEN  LINES  277 

The  following  days  were  weighted  with  emotions 
too  deep  for  words. 

Arnold — simple,  direct — had  no  confusion  as  to 
results.  Glenn  had  come  home.  Later  he  meant  to 
know  all,  but  at  first  he  would  not  let  her  talk. 

"It's  a  mighty  good  thing,"  he  said,  gently — and 
oh!  how  gentle  he  was  in  those  days — "after  a  storm, 
to  calm  down  a  bit  until  you  can  tell  it  without — 
getting  excited." 

Glenn  looked  adoringly  at  him. 

But  with  Grey,  the  matter  was  not  so  unhampered. 
For  a  woman  to  walk  out  of  her  husband's  home  with 
their  child,  during  his  absence,  was  a  grave  matter, 
especially  when  the  child  was  painfully  delicate. 
And  the  break  appeared  to  be  definite,  on  Glenn's 
part.  Carrington  was  hardly  the  man  to  have  his 
private  possessions  wrenched  from  him  without — 
getting  them  back!  In  this  matter,  and  justly,  he 
had  serious  grounds  for  indignation  and  resentment. 

The  whole  affair,  in  the  aftermath  of  calm  reason, 
had  all  the  appearance  of  grave  danger.  Grey  cer 
tainly  could  not  be  accused  of  sympathizing  with 
Carrington  on  general  principle,  but  he  saw  his  point 
of  view,  now.  If  the  thing  were  not  so  tragic,  it 
would  be  comic. 

Little  by  little  Grey  had  got  from  Glenn  a  pretty 
comprehensive  idea  of  the  trouble.  There  had,  un 
doubtedly,  been  rather  an  illuminating  scene  after 
the  Hollow  episode,  but  when  all  was  said  and  done, 
it  could  not  justify  what  followed.  On  the  other 
hand,  Grey  saw,  with  ever-growing  conviction,  that 
the  episode  was  the  climax  of  years.  It  was  the 
blinding,  shuddering  Conclusion.  Looking  at  it  from 


278  UNBROKEN  LINES 

every  point  of  view  it  remained  the  invincible  proof 
of  final  understanding  between  two  strong  natures. 
Thus  argued  the  practical  mind  of  Grey,  while  his  love, 
well  under  control,  made  its  plea  to  his  sympathy. 

Then,  when  justice  presently  began  to  grow  dim, 
Grey  was  frightened.  It  was  no  time  to  desert 
justice,  Heaven  knew!  And  yet,  no  mere  going 
back  to  Carrington  would  settle  this  ugly  business. 
Grey  realized  that,  eventually,  and  he  recalled 
Beverly  Train's  prophecies. 

The  Lines  had  drawn  close — the  Line  of  Law;  the 
Line  of  Love.  What  would  follow  ? 

"A  letter  will  come,"  thought  Grey;  "a  command 
ing  ultimatum." 

"What  then?" 

"The  lines  never  merge,"  Beverly  had  said.  "In 
the  end  the  Law  will  cast  Love  to  the  mob ! " 

With  the  thought  Grey's  mouth  grew  firm  and 
his  eyes  deep. 

Perhaps  Carrington  would  come,  personally,  to 
collect  his  property;  that  was  a  later  fear.  At  such 
a  prospect  Grey  shuddered,  for  he  pictured  Arnold's 
part  in  the  scene — Arnold  with  his  plain,  unadorned 
code  and  his  passion  for  his  girl! 

Perhaps — and  here  Grey  threw  his  shoulders  back 
— perhaps,  in  a  grand  and  majestic  manner,  Carring 
ton  would  push  Glenn  legally  from  his  life.  In  that 
case — and  then  Grey's  mouth  tightened  again.  It 
was,  after  all,  a  vicious  circle. 

But  the  child?  Through  her,  Carrington  at  the 
last,  might  seek  to  crush  Glenn.  There,  he  had  the 
lash  well  in  hand.  In  the  sickly,  unprepossessing 
little  girl,  lay  the  darkest  danger  of  all. 


UNBROKEN  LINES  279 

But  in  those  first  days — Grey  alone,  apparently, 
was  tortured  by  these  fears  and  doubts. 

At  first  Constance  was  seriously  affected  by  every 
thing.  Her  journey;  her  fear  of  the  strange  place; 
the  altitude  and  her — homesickness.  It  gave  cause 
for  worry  to  them  all. 

"She's  not  sick,"  Glenn  said;  "she  has  had  attacks 
ever  since  her  birth — but  this  is  not  one." 

And  while  they  hung  over  her — little  Davey  felt 
his  way  down  the  trail  and  came  to  the  rescue. 

His  beauty  and  appeal  helped  to  lessen  Glenn's 
tortured  anxiety  for  Constance.  The  little  boy 
reached  out  and  touched  the  sick  girl's  face  and  she 
aroused  to  interest.  Presently  she  grew  stronger; 
watched  for  Davey;  went  to  meet  him  on  the  trail — 
and  then  took  a  new  lease  of  life! 

Davey  clungto  his  preconceived  ideal  of  Constance. 
He  stood  beside  her  and  found  that  they  were  of 
nearly  the  same  height!  She  fell  short  of  his  hope 
in  her  manner.  She  was  not  jolly  and  she  never  said 
funny  things,  but  Davey  concluded  that  that  was 
because  she  was  ill. 

"You  are  a  hummer!"  he  insisted. 

"A — what?"  asked  Constance. 

"A  hummer!" 

"What's  that?" 

"It's — it's  something  I  made  you!" 

"You're  a  funny  boy!"  and  then  Constance 
laughed.  So  rare  a  thing  was  this  that  everyone  was 
touched  by  it;  all  but  Arnold! 

"I  don't  like  her  laugh,"  he  confided  to  Grey; 
"it  has  no  joy  in  it;  it  is  just  a — a — sound." 

From  the  first  his  aversion  to  the  small,  dark  child 


28o  UNBROKEN  LINES 

was  deeply  painful.  He  struggled  with  it — hid  it, 
for  the  most  part — but  could  not  conquer  it.  Had 
Constance  belonged  to  any  one  else  but  Glenn,  she 
would  have  awakened  his  pity  and  sympathy,  but 
that  she  was  part  of  his  girl,  seemed  monstrous; 
abnormal. 

"I  don't  like  her  eye,"  he  further  confided  to  Grey. 
"She  means  mischief." 

At  this  Grey  actually  turned  upon  Arnold.  His 
fear  of  results  made  him  more  emphatic. 

"It's  not  like  you,  Arnold,"  he  said,  "to  wrong 
anything  so  helpless  and  young.  Besides,  man,  she's 
yours — your  blood  runs  in  her  veins.  You're  not 
decent." 

"What  little  blood  the  child  has,"  Arnold  rejoined, 
"isn't  mine;  take  that  from  me,  Mac.  And  if  I  feel 
at  odds  with  her,  what  of  her  feeling  toward  me? 
She  told  me  not  to  touch  her  the  other  day;  she — 
smiled  at  me  as  if  she  were  a  thousand  years  old." 

"She  is — more  or  less,  Arnold.  That's  the  trouble 
with  her.  It's  up  to  us  to  make  her  forget  it  and 
start  her  afresh."  Then  they  spoke*  of  Carrington. 

"A  blessed  scamp  he  is!"  thundered  Arnold. 
"Letting  his  wife  and  child  slip  through  his  hands  and 
never  peeping.  A  cad,  Mac,  a  cursed  cad."  Arnold 
was  getting,  little  by  little,  the  story  of  the  past. 

"Arnold,"  Grey  looked  grave,  "Carrington  will 
peep,  never  fear.  He'll  reach  out,  too,  take  my  word 
for  it;  but  he'll  do  neither  until  he  is — sure.  We 
might  as  well  be  ready." 

"  I'm  ready,"  Arnold  rejoined,  grimly.  "  I've 
been  ready  from  the  moment  I  first  looked  at  Glenn ; 
he  cannot  come  too  soon  for  me." 


UNBROKEN  LINES  281 

When  Glenn's  birthday  drew  near,  Sam,  Polly, 
and  Davey  went  to  the  Lodge. 

"We  must  celebrate,  Daddy  dear.  Let  us  have  a 
party  for  Constance.  Think!  she  has  never  had  one." 

Then  it  was  that  Glenn  conceived  the  idea  of  giving 
her  own  old  toys  to  her  little  girl.  For  some  un 
known  reason  she  had  not  taken  Constance  to  the 
little  room  under  the  eaves.  Arnold  had  kept  the 
door  locked  and  she  had  not  wanted  to  ask  him  for 
the  key;  but  now  she  did.  Arnold  handed  it  to  her 
but  made  no  comment.  Taking  Constance  by  the 
hand,  early  in  the  morning  of  the  birthday,  she  led 
her  upstairs  and  to  the  pretty  room. 

"This  is  mother's  old  room,  dear,  and  mother's 
blessed  old  toys;  I  give  them  all  to  you,  darling — 
because  it  is  my  birthday!" 

The  surrender  was  very  touching.  Glenn  gave 
the  impression  of  youth;  the  little  figure  beside  her, 
of  antiquity. 

"This  is  Susan  Ann,  Connie" — Glenn  took  the  doll 
made  of  the  tree  root;  "she  taught  me  how  to  love 
real  babies." 

"Did  she?"  Constance  drew  back;  "I  think  she's 
very  ugly,  Mother.  I — I  don't  like  her." 

"Oh!  Connie."     Glenn  showed  her  hurt. 

"And  the  other  things" — Constance  swept  them 
with  her  keen  eyes — "they — they  make  me  afraid, 
Mother.  Come  out  and  shut  the  door!  I  don't 
want  these  things." 

"Why,  my  dear  little  girl!"  Glenn  was  almost  cry 
ing  but  she  saw  that  Constance  was  seriously  dis 
turbed.  She  was  trembling,  pitifully. 

"I — I  don't  like  the  mountains,  either,  the  child 


282  UNBROKEN  LINES 

was  saying;  "they  will  fall  on  me  some  day.  I 
am  afraid  of — of  things.  When  are  we  going 
home?" 

All  the  light  died  in  Glenn's  face. 

"Why,  darling,  this  is  home!" 

"It — it  isn't  my  home!"  The  defiant  flash  in  the 
child's  eyes  daunted  Glenn.  She  did  not  speak. 

"I — I  do  not  like  grandfather  Arnold,  either!" 
Constance,  now  that  she  was  at  bay,  observed  no 
obstructions.  "I'm  not  his — his  folks!"  The  last 
word  held  a  world  of  meaning. 

"Constance;  you  mustn't  talk  like  this."  Glenn 
tried  to  be  severe. 

"Why  not?"  This  was  put  simply.  A  mere  de 
sire  for  information. 

"Come,  dear,"  Glenn  led  the  child  from  the  room, 
locking  the  door  after  her.  She  did  not  reply  to 
Constance  and,  like  one  stricken,  she  went  down 
stairs. 

"Daddy,"  she  said  to  Arnold,  handing  him  back 
the  key;  "Connie  doesn't  want  the  toys — not  just 
now.  We'll  have  to  have  our  party  without 
them." 

Arnold  did  not  speak,  but  he  turned  from  Con 
stance  with  added  aversion. 

They  had  their  little  party  on  the  piazza  of  Beverly 
Train's  cabin.  That  was  Grey's  idea. 

"If  any  one  could  straighten  all  this  mess  out, 
Glenn,"  he  said,  "it  would  be  Beverly." 

"Yes,  I  think  she  could,  Mac.  Any  way  she  would 
love  to  have  us  play  near  her  cabin." 

So  they  played,  as  best  they  could,  through  the 
golden  autumn  afternoon.  Davey  had  never  been 


UNBROKEN  LINES  283 

more  whimsical  nor  delightful  than  he  was  then. 
He  gleefully  told  them  what  he  "saw."  He  was 
roguish  and  fanciful.  But,  best  of  all,  he  made 
Constance  laugh  that  strange  laugh  of  hers,  which 
disclosed  so  little,  and  held  so  much. 


CHAPTER  XX 

MAC,"  said  Arnold  one  day  to  Grey,  "that 
child" — he  glanced  over  to  where   Con 
stance  was  sitting  by  Davey  on  the  piazza 
of  the  Lodge — "means  mischief.     There  is  something 
awful  in   anything  so  small  and  weak  having  the 
power  she  has." 

"I  cannot  understand  you,  Arnold,  where  Con 
stance  is  concerned,"  Grey  replied.  He  had  a  wor 
ried,  an  alert  look  at  times;  Carrington's  silence  had 
the  hanging-sword  effect  upon  him.  "I  wonder  if 
you  are  not  dealing  to  the  child  what  is  really  not 
her  due?  It's  not  like  you,  Arnold,  to  hold  a  grudge 
against  any  one,  least  of  all  against,  as  you  say,  any 
thing  so  small  and  weak." 

"I  know,  Mac.  That's  the  way  I  talk  to  myself. 
There  are  times  when  I  keep  away  from  my  own  bed 
room — I  don't  feel  fit  to  enter.  I  would  be  ashamed 
to  face  Glenn's  mother,  but  you  don't  suppose,  do 
you  Mac,  that  I  wouldn't  right  myself,  if  I  could?" 

"I  repeat,  Arnold,  I  cannot  understand  it."  Grey 
was  annoyed. 

"Just  fancy  that  youngster" — Arnold  contem 
plated  the  offending  Constance  as  once  he  had  con 
templated  his  sprained  ankle;  something  apart  from 
himself — "just  fancy  her  being  able  to  fill  whole 
hours  of  my  time,  wondering  about  what's  she  up 
to!" 

284 


UNBROKEN  LINES  285 

"Why  not  leave  her  alone,  Arnold,  until  she  springs 
something?  She's  quiet  and  tractable  enough, 
Heaven  knows!  I  wish  she  would  flare  up  once  in 
a  while." 

"Exactly!  So  do  I.  If  she  did,  we'd  get  a  line 
on  her  temperature  and,  by  the  light  of  the  flare, 
be  able  to  see  a  bit  more  plainly."  Arnold  laughed. 
"The  fact  is,  Mac,  I  don't  feel  easy  when  my  eye 
isn't  on  her.  The  whole  thing  in  a  nutshell  is: 
she's  like  her  damned  father!"  Arnold  let  his  emo 
tions  escape  him,  his  face  grew  stern  and  white. 
"Mac,  what  does  that  scoundrel  mean  by  letting  a 
situation  like  this  exist  and  not  mutter  a  word?" 

Grey  was  chopping  wood — he  paused  now  and  went 
over  to  Arnold  by  the  big  saw. 

"I  wish  that  I  knew,  Arnold," he  said, sympathetic 
ally;  "the  thing  is  wearing  me  out,  guessing!  There 
are  times  when  I  take  the  best  view  of  it  that  I  can. 
I  know  Carrington  could  not  acknowledge  a  wrong 
easily;  he  is  too  cast-iron.  But  he  may  know  that 
he  is  wrong,  and  is  waiting  for  the  first  move  on 
Glenn's  part.  If  that's  his  attitude  it's  at  least  half 
way  decent  for  him  to  leave  the  way  perfectly  open 
to  her.  And  after  all,  on  the  surface — looked  at  as 
the  world  looks  at  such  things — what  has  he  done 
to  deserve  what  Glenn  has  done?" 

"I  don't  believe  you  hold  to  the  belief  you've  just 
aired,  Mac;  you're  trying  to  make  the  best  of  a  bad 
bargain. 

"'On  the  surface!  Good  Lord,  boy!  What  do 
you  mean  by  'on  the  surface'?  You  and  I  knew  my 
girl;  we  saw  her  go  away  with  that  man;  we  saw  her 
come  home!  I  haven't  let  her  talk  long,  about  the 


286  UNBROKEN  LINES 

past.  When  Carrington  shows  his  hand  she'll  have 
to  talk  and  once  will  be  enough.  But  I  saw  her  come 
back!  I  saw  the  marks  of  what  he  did  to  her,  and 
by  the  eternal  God,  Mac,  he's  got  to  set  her  free! 
I  don't  care  how  the  World  thinks  about  such  things! 
— There's  another  guess  coming  to  the  World  when 
women  tell  what  they  think  about  the  blows  that 
hit  them  hardest.  Glenn  has  got  to  get  free  of  that 
man  who  twisted  her  soul  out  of  shape!  If  there 
isn't  a  law  to  cut  her  free,  then  by  Heaven!  she's 
got  to  smash  the  law.  There's  only  one  cause  for 
divorce  under  heaven!  Only  one  Mac — and  it  isn't 
the  one  we  talk  about!  A  woman  might  love  a  man 
who  beat  her,  or  who  was  untrue  to  her.  She  could 
cling  to  him  and  be  a  good  wife  to  him  and  a  happy 
one,  too.  A  man  could — I  know  what  I'm  talking 
about — a  man  could  hold  holy  a  woman  that — others 
had  tossed  aside.  But  if  a  man  or  a  woman  don't 
want  to  live  with  wife  or  with  husband  because  of 
things  the  world  couldn't  understand  if  it  tried — 
the  soul-twisting  kind  of  things — that  is  enough!" 

"I — I  don't  know,  Arnold!"  Grey's  eyes  were 
troubled.  He  did  know;  but  he  was  clinging  to  the 
old  raft,  while  Arnold  was  struggling  in  the  open. 
"I  don't  know.  It  would  be  a  dangerous  law  that 
left  folks — such  a  wide  gate  to  get  out  of." 

"What  do  you  gain  by  shutting  them  in,  Mac? 
Look  at  Glenn — look  at  her!  I  tell  you  most  of  the 
marriage  and  divorce  laws  were  made  for  people 
who  do  not  need  them.  They  who  do,  either  kick 
over  the  traces  or — drop  in  the  shafts.  My  girl 
meant  well  toward  life;  she  did  her  part.  I  know 
that,  without  word  of  hers.  If  she  hadn't  she  would 


UNBROKEN  LINES  287 

never  look  the  way  she  does — and  her  man  has,  under 
the  law,  got  a  strangle  hold  on  her!  He's  got  to  set 
her  free,  Mac,  or " 

"None  of  that,  Arnold!"  Grey  sprang  to  the  de 
fense  of  that  which  they  all  held  most  dear.  "You're 
the  last  man  to  do  anything  so — so  cheap  as  that," 
he  continued,  for  there  was  murder  in  Arnold's  eyes. 
— The  primitive  in  the  man  was  rising  dangerously. 

"Maybe,  Mac,  maybe,  but  I  was  never  one  to 
bear  strain  easy;  nor  is  my  girl;  and  her  man  and  his 
child  are  master-hands  at  putting  on  the  screws." 

After  this  talk  things  ran  along  rather  more 
smoothly  at  the  Lodge  for  some  days.  Nothing 
was  said  of  Carrington,  but  the  silence  that  held  him, 
while  weighted  with  apprehension,  held  also  a  new 
force  determined  to  combat  any  move  from  out  of 
the  dark. 

Little  Constance  rallied.  She  refrained  from 
further  reference  to  her  home,  but  she  gave  the  im 
pression  always  of  being  a  visitor.  She  had  moods 
when  she  would  sit  staring  at  Arnold  as  if  he  puzzled 
her.  He  would  grow  impatient  and  he  often  asked : 

"What  you  thinking  about,  child?" 

"You,"  she  would  return  calmly. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think?" 

"A  great  many  things." 

"Such  as?"  Arnold  made  a  noble  effort  to  be 
genial. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  tell  you?" 

"I  do." 

"I  think  you  don't  like  me — because  I  am  not 
your"  [Constance  paused  in  order  to  impress  her 
amazed  listener] —  "folks!  Davey  is  your  folks 


288  UNBROKEN  LINES 

and  Mother,  and  Uncle  Mac — but  I'm  not.  And  I 
think  it  is  very  mean — for  I  cannot  help  not  being 
your  folks ! " 

Arnold  was  so  dumfounded  that  he  could  not 
reply  to  the  small  accusing  creature  sitting  opposite 
him,  her  elbows  on  the  table,  her  elfish  face  held  in 
the  palms  of  her  little,  thin  hands. 

"I  felt,"  Arnold  later  explained  to  Grey,  "as  if 
I  were  a  guilty  wretch.  I  wanted  to  take  the  child 
in  my  arms  and  cry  over  her — but  I  couldn't!" 

What  Arnold  did  say,  once  he  could  speak,  was: 

"Why — why  don't  you  try  to  be  my  folks,  Con 
stance?" 

"I  don't  know.  Maybe  I  do  not  want  to  be; 
maybe  I — cannot  be,"  the  child  had  replied  and  then 
she  gave  her  peculiar  laugh  that  sounded  as  if  it 
came  from  the  concentrated  and  embittered  indiffer 
ence  of  ages. 

"Run  out  and  play!"  Arnold  commanded,  im 
patiently;  "there's  Davey  over  on  your  Uncle  Mac's 
porch.  Hustle  away  and  try  to  be  a  good  little  girl." 

This  sounded  so  puerile  when  directed  toward  the 
dignified  little  soul  deliberately  making  her  exit, 
that  Arnold  found  it  possible  to  laugh  and  dismiss 
her  from  his  thoughts — for  the  time  being. 

Grey  had  gone  to  Connor's  on  business.  He  had 
gone  with  Sam,  two  days  before,  and  Glenn  was  call 
ing  on  Polly  the  afternoon  of  Constance's  confes 
sion  to  her  grandfather. 

Arnold,  making  sure  that  the  little  girl  had  gone  to 
Davey,  returned  to  his  reading.  An  hour  passed; 
then  two  hours.  Arnold  found  that  the  room  was 
growing  chilly.  He  arose  and  put  several  logs  on  the 


UNBROKEN  LINES  289 

fire  and  glanced  at  the  clock.  It  was  half  past  four. 
"Where  are  those  children?"  he  wondered.  He 
went  to  the  door  and  called.  There  was  no  reply. 
"Queer!"  he  muttered.  He  went  outside;  there  was 
no  trace  of  either  Davey  or  Constance. 

A  few  minutes  later  Glenn  came  down  the  trail. 
Almost  at  the  same  time,  Sam  and  Grey  were  seen 
mounting  the  hill,  their  horses  loaded,  and  taking 
the  last  stages  of  the  trip  easy. 

Arnold  showed  his  anxiety  over  the  children  and 
the  others  shared  it.  After  a  little  deliberation  they 
started,  in  different  directions,  to  search.  They 
were  all,  however,  still  within  hailing  distance  when 
the  two  runaways  came  into  sight  from  the  woods 
behind  Beverly  Train's  Cottage. 

Arnold  called:  "Here  they  are!"  and  soon  the 
three  were  at  the  Lodge  where  Davey — white,  hag 
gard,  and  silent — sat  apart  and  Constance,  her  lips 
in  a  straight  line,  her  dark  eyes  flashing,  confronted 
her  grandfather. 

"I — I  cannot  get  them  to  speak,"  Arnold  said. 
"I  wager  she  has" — he  did  not  say  "they  have" — 
"been  up  to  mischief." 

"Where  have  you  been,  Connie?"  asked  Glenn, 
kneeling  beside  her  little  girl.  "Tell  mother." 

"Walking." 

"Where,  dear?" 

"In  the  woods." 

"What  were  you  doing  there?" 

"Walking!"  The  little  dark  face  grew  hard. 
Glenn  knew  the  signs. 

Then  into  the  confused  silence,  a  great  sob  of  suf 
fering  broke  from  Davey.  He  was  sitting  with  his 


290  UNBROKEN  LINES 

small  hands  gripped  close,  his  fair  face  hung  upon  his 
swelling  chest. 

Constance  looked  at  him  with  contempt  and  sud 
denly  commanded: 

"Tell!     I  don't  care." 

There  was  a  pause.     Then  Davey  sobbed: 

"She's  taken  my — my  mountains  away;  and  the— - 
the  stars  and — and  everything!  She  says — every 
thing  is  all — lies!" 

From  her  seat,  where  she  sat  crouched  like  a  gnome, 
Constance  spoke: 

"And  so  it  is!  It's  wicked,  just  because  he's  blind, 
to  tell  him  things  that  are  not  true.  I  told  him  how 
mountains  look,  and  how  his  father  and  mother  look, 
and  stars,  and  my  mother,  and — everyone!" 

"Oh!  Constance,  how  could  you?"  cried  Glenn. 
Davey 's  white  face  smote  her  heart;  but  her  own 
child's  hardness  hurt  her  soul! 

"And  now,"  poor  Davey  sobbed,  "I  don't  know 
what  to  do." 

Arnold  without  a  word  left  the  room,  Sam  leaned 
over  his  boy — his  helpless  passion  seeking  to  shield, 
but  not  seeing  any  way  to  do  so.  Grey  felt  a  strong 
desire  to  lay  his  hands  on  the  defiant  child  beside 
whom  Glenn  stood  grieving.  The  savage  instinct, 
however,  left  him  at  once  and  again,  as  he  had  often 
felt  before — he  was  up  in  arms  to  defend  Glenn 
from  suffering  or  loss;  defend  her  against  her 
child! 

"Come,  come!"  he  exclaimed  in  a  tone  that  broke 
the  abnormal  by  its  healthy  note  of  normality; 
"are  you  going  to  let  a  little  girl  who  doesn't  know 
what  she's  talking  about,  take  your  mountains  and 


UNBROKEN  LINES  291 

stars  from  you,  Davey?  Shame  on  you,  man,  to 
believe  anything  against  us  who  love  you!" 

Davey  stifled  his  sobs — this  was  a  new  side-light. 

"She  said "  began  Davey,  but  there  was  hope 

on  his  little  stained  face.  .  .  . 

"They  are  lies!"  shouted  Constance,  her  eyes 
blazing. 

"Come  here!"  When  Grey  commanded — he  did 
not  often  do  it — people  attended.  "Come  here, 
Constance!" 

The  child  walked  deliberately  to  him. 

"It's  a  pretty  mean  thing  to  say  what  you've 
said  unless  you  are  sure."  Grey  spoke  calmly  to 
her. 

"Insure,  Uncle  Mac!" 

"Have  you  looked — with  Davey's  eyes?" 

"He — he  hasn't  any! — that's  another " 

"Quiet!"  Grey  laid  firm  hands  on  the  thin  shoul 
ders;  "Davey  has  eyes — and  you  know  it.  You 
are  not  speaking  the  truth.  He  has  beautiful,  clear 
blue  eyes." 

Constance  stared. 

"Well— he  hasn't  —he  cannot " 

"Constance;  suppose  you  look  with  Davey's  eyes." 
Grey  still  held  her.  "Now,  close  your  lids  down, 
so!  What  do  you  see?" 

"Nothing!"" 

Nor  did  she,  poor  child ! 

The  word  brought  a  stifled  cry  from  Glenn. 
Constance's  empty  childhood  held  no  visions  or 
fancies  with  which  to  people  the  long,  dark  hours 
when  pain  kept  sleep  away. 

"Try   again,   Connie.     I   will   hold   your  hand." 


292  UNBROKEN  LINES 

Grey  was  in  deadly  earnest.  He  knew  that  much — 
much — was  at  stake. 

And  then  in  the  stillness  Constance  tried  again. 
Having  nothing  of  her  own  she  fell  back  upon 
Davey's  visions  and  they  seemed  to  materialize  back 
of  her  lids.  Presently  her  lips  quivered. 

"You're  not  so  sure,  are  you,  Connie?"  Grey 
drew  her  closer. 

"No.  Uncle  Mac!"  Constance  meant  to  be  just. 

"All  right!  If  you're  not  sure,  you'd  better 
wait  until  you  are." 

And  then  Grey  turned  to  Sam. 

"Let  me  have  Davey  for  a  day  or  so,"  he  said; 
"he  and  I  have  some  business  together." 

The  danger  was  averted — Glenn  took  her  little 
girl  away  to  her  bedroom  and  Davey  went  to  Grey's 
cabin  where,  as  man  to  man,  they  talked  it  over. 

The  days  that  followed  almost  blotted  out  the 
anxiety  concerning  Carrington's  silence,  so  weighted 
were  they  with  the  effort  to  restore  to  poor  Davey 
his  faith  and  joy,  and  to  bring  to  Constance  a  glimpse 
into  the  garden  of  her  own  bleak  and  unknown  child 
hood.  Glenn  watched  the  working  of  Grey's  magic 
imagination.  Never  had  he  given  to  his  most  serious 
work,  the  concentration  that  he  put,  now,  upon  the 
task  he  had  undertaken. 

Davey  responded  sooner  for  he  had  love  and  health 
to  build  upon;  poor  Constance  was  a  different  prob 
lem.  What  had  she?  But  presently  her  own  lack 
touched  her;  her  "difference" — and  that  cut  deep. 
She  closed  her  eyes;  she  clenched  her  hands;  she  tried 
to  see — with  Davey's  eyes ! 


UNBROKEN  LINES  293 

When  she  was  with  Grey  or  the  boy,  she  could  see 
— a  little — and  it  quickened  her  pulses. 

"It's  like  something — hiding!"  she  confided  to 
Grey.  She  was  excited  and  pathetic.  Even  Arnold 
was  touched  by  the  unexpected  turn  things  had  taken. 

And  then  it  was  that  little  Constance  Carrington's 
childhood  began.  She  no  longer  laughed  in  her 
vague  way  at  Davey;  sometimes  she  laughed  with 
him  when  he  praised  her  for  some  little  success  in  her 
upward  course.  What  they  confided  to  each  other, 
no  one  questioned  for  presently  Grey  relinquished 
his  authority,  and  watched  the  working  of  the  divine 
in  both  children. 

Davey  had  his  blessed  visions  back  tenfold,  and 
with  them  a  new  and  manly  courage;  a  determination 
to  "show  the  stuff  that  was  in  him,"  as  Grey  put  it. 
And  Constance,  with  her  imagination  lighted,  saw 
far  and  still  farther.  She  asked,  by-and-bye,  to  have 
her  mother's  toys;  she  touched  them  with  strangely 
yearning  hands.  She  looked  questioningly  up  at  her 
mother  and  whispered: 

"You  do  have  to  have  Davey's  eyes — and  then! — • 
why,  Mothet,  you  see  little  babies  in  Susan  Anns, 
don't  you?" 

And  after  that,  Constance  never  spoke  of  going 
home.  She  played  gravely — almost  shyly.  She 
followed  Grey  about  as  if,  when  with  him,  she  felt 
safe.  She  watched  for  Davey's  coming  and  often 
met  him  half  way  on  the  path  known  as  Davey's 
Trail.  Sometimes,  in  the  night,  she  crept  from  her 
bed,  which  was  in  her  mother's  room,  and  nestled  in 
Glenn's  arms.  Once,  she  whispered  the  secret  that 
Carrington  had  unwisely  entrusted  to  her. 


294  UNBROKEN  LINES 

"Father  said,"  she  whispered,  "that  your — your 
folks  were — different;  but  they  aren't,  Mother;  they 
only  seem  so,  until  you  know.  It  isn't  a  secret  any 
more,  because  it  isn't  so!  Sometimes  I  think  Father 
doesn't  know  everything!" 

This  was  not  said  bitterly  or  harshly,  but  with  a 
touch  of  compassion. 

"Mother's  own  little  girl!"  cried  Glenn;  and  she 
drew  the  child  closer,  resenting  fiercely  the  intention 
Carrington  had  when  he  put  the  thought  in  Con 
stance's  mind. 

"Poor  Father  doesn't  know  everything,  Connie; 
none  of  us  do.  But  did  Father  say  that  that  was 
a — secret?" 

"No — but  I  knew  that  it  was.  Something  makes 
you  know  secrets." 

"Yes — darling;  something  does." 

And  they  fell  asleep  with  their  arms  about  each 
other.  The  secret  had  lost  its  sting. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

CARRINGTON'S  fortnight  had  stretched  into 
a  month.  He  had  not  written  to  Glenn  at  first 
because  he  considered  that  she  had  acted  in  a 
most  silly  and  childish  fashion — he'd  forgotten  pre 
cisely  what  it  was  all  about — and  had  best  be  left  to 
herself  for  a  few  days.  His  own  days  certainly  were 
difficult  enough!  With  his  high  sense  of  honour  it 
was  extremely  hard  for  him  to  tell  what  he  knew 
about  the  strike  and  the  shooting  of  Thompson  and, 
at  the  same  time,  keep  well  within  the  bounds  of 
actual  facts. 

He  expected  a  letter  from  Glenn  at  the  end  of  the 
first  week — one  of  those  queer,  little  letters  of  hers 
that  always  gave  the  impression  that  she  had  slipped 
in  bearing  the  letter  in  her  hands.  But  no  letter 
came. 

Then  Carrington  set  his  jaws.  Of  course  he  could 
not  write  first.  What  had  he  done?  And  she  had 
refused  to  kiss  him  good-bye — had  looked  at  him  as 
no  good  and  tender  woman  should  ever  look  at  a 
man.  What  could  the  girl  be  thinking  of  to  dare 
so  much? 

Next  he  reverted  to  Glenn's  beginnings,  from  which 
he  had  brought  her  into  the  wide  Place  that  was  his. 
What  had  he  not  showered  upon  her?  How  little 
she  seemed  to  realize  her  great  uplift.  There  had 
been  times  when  Carrington  had  liked  that  about 

295 


296  UNBROKEN  LINES 

his  wife — he  could  never  have  stood  a  cringer.  But 
nevertheless  he  would  like  her  to  show  some  apprecia 
tion. 

But  what  a  comical,  sweet  thing  she  was,  take  it 
all  in  all!  That  was  funny,  her  wanting  to  clean  up 
the  Hollow!  The  shock  had  frightened  her.  She 
was  sentimental,  but  warm  hearted.  That  was  right 
for  a  woman!  Some  day,  Carrington  decided,  he 
would  let  Glenn  play  Lady  Bountiful.  It  would 
ease  her  conscience  and  add  to  his  glory.  He 
couldn't  show  any  weakness  himself,  but  he'd  let 
Glenn  have  a  certain  sum  to  spend  and  show  herself 
to  the— "hands." 

The  second  week  brought  no  letter  and  then  Car 
rington  put  sentiment  aside.  He  hurried  his  busi 
ness.  Just  before  he  left  he  received  a  telegram 
from  Glenn: 

I  am  taking  Constance  away.     She  is  all  right. 

Carrington's  face  turned  ashy — not  with  fear  but 
with  anger.  He  calmly  finished  all  that  he  had  to  do 
and  went  back  to  Far  Hills,  giving  no  intimation 
that  his  wife's  whereabouts  were  unknown  to  him. 

He  listened  to  all  the  housekeeper  had  to  say — and 
she  said  a  good  deal!  He  went  quietly,  when  not 
observed,  through  the  empty  rooms,  hoping  to  find 
some  trace  or  message.  He  noted  how  little  had 
been  taken  from  closet  or  drawers  and  he  came 
presently  to  the  conclusion  that  Glenn  had  gone  to 
Beverly  Train's.  This  was  not  pleasing — he  had 
commanded  her  to  the  contrary — but  it  was  better 
than  some  other  things. 

Having  reached  a  definite  idea,  Carrington  com- 


UNBROKEN  LINES  297 

posed  himself  and  called  on  Thompson  who  was  in 
the  hospital.  Here  he  got  something  new  to  think 
about.  Thompson  informed  him  that  unless,  after 
his  recovery,  he  were  allowed  to  run  things  on  a 
fairer  basis,  he'd  quit  and  have  done  with  it. 

"Got  a  bad  scare,  Thompson?"  Carrington  was 
annoyed,  but  he  meant  to  be  reasonable. 

"No;  but  I  got  an  argument,  all  right.  Fm  not 
going  to  stand  in  front  of  another  man's  bullet.  I'm 
willing  to  take  what's  coming  to  me,  but  nothing 


more." 


Carrington  did  not  like  the  tone. 

"It  was  a  devilish  bad  shot,  Thompson,  but  you 
must  do  me  the  credit  of  feeling  that  I  wasn't  slinking. 
I  was  there." 

"You  were  there,  then,  yes.  But  I'm  not  going 
to  be  so  close  to  you  again,  Mr.  Carrington.  It 
doesn't  pay!  Lying  here,  I've  done  some  thinking 
on  my  own  account.  There  are  dirty  doings  among 
the  men,  no  doubt — all  sorts  of  mischief  and  the 
rest — but  the  wrong  isn't  all  there,  by  a  long  shot. 
And  there  isn't  ever  going  to  be  any  understanding 
until  we  all  get  into  the  thing  together." 

"You  know  my  ideas  on  this  line,  Thompson,  I'm 
not  likely  to  change  them.  You'll  think  better  of 
this  when  you  get  out.  Bread  and  butter  is  a  good 
argument,  too,  old  man.  Wait  until  your  wife  has 
her  say."  Carrington  tried  to  be  light  and  pleasant 
as  was  proper  in  a  sick  room. 

"My  wife  is  the  one  who  has  put  me  clear  on 
this,"  Thompson  rejoined;  "women  think  differ- 
ently  from  us,  Mr.  Carrington,  but  that  doesn't 
mean  that  they're  wrong,  always." 


298  UNBROKEN  LINES 

Thompson  said  this  with  a  certain  timidity.  His 
recent  accident  and  illness,  his  confinement  and  time 
for  thought  had  given  him  the  new  slant  that  per 
plexed  and  annoyed  the  man  who  listened.  Car- 
rington  was  tolerant,  but  disgusted  with  it  all. 

"After  all,  I  see  no  reason  for  bringing  women  into 
this,  Thompson;  such  ideas  as  they  have  are — med 
dlesome.  You  and  I  realize  that  it  takes  more  than 
a  surface  glance  and  book-reading  to  tackle  this  prob 
lem." 

Then  Thompson  raised  himself,  propped  on  his 
elbow.  He  was  a  big,  red-headed  man  with  a  firm 
jaw  and  steady  eyes.  He'd  come  up  from  the 
ranks — had  been  a  boy  in  the  older  Carrington's 
reign. 

"See  here,  Mr.  Richard,"  he  said  with  a  rough 
kind  of  impressiveness,  and  reverting  to  the  name  he 
used  to  call  his  present  employer;  "boy  and  man 
I've  hung  to  your  business.  What  I  am,  it  has  made 
me.  Your  father  saw  something  in  me — at  times 
I  think  it  was  the  worst  in  me — to  build  on,  and  to 
day  I'm  on  both  feet,  with  something  in  the  bank! 
I'm  not  ungrateful.  I  want  to  hang  to  you;  I  want 
to  see  you,  sir,  at  the  head  of  the  lines;  but  for  some 
years  past  I've  seen  what  you  haven't  seen,  being 
close,  as  you  might  say,  and  listening,  as  one  has  to. 
The  world  is  tackling  this  big,  ugly  wrong  that  some 
how  has  got  wedged  between  the — the  men  who  have 
got  and  the  men  who  helped  them  get  and  want  to 
share!  I  don't  know  just  where  the  wrong  is;  neither 
do  the  under  men;  we're  all  fighting  in  the  dark  and 
doing  bad  work.  But  there  are  men,  Mr.  Richard — 
men  as  big  as  you  and  richer,  too — who  are  flinging 


UNBROKEN  LINES  299 

themselves  into  the  fight,  meaning  to — to  find  out; 
and  if  the  Lord  lets  me  live,  so  help  me,  I'm  going  to 
join  up  with  them!  Maybe,  having  risen  from 
nothing,  I  have  something  to  tell  them,  and  then  I 
can  carry  back  to  the  men — such  men  as  O'Ryan 
and  the  poor  devil  who  shot  at  you  and  hit  me — a 
word  that  may  help." 

Thompson  sank  back,  pale  and  trembling.  He 
had  given  out  all  that  his  days  of  lonely  pain  and 
isolation  had  evolved.  Carrington's  face  hardened, 
until  it  looked  like  a  mask. 

"Having  made  your  pile,"  he  said — slowly,  hurt- 
ingly — "having  got  all  you  can  out  of  us,  you  are 
ready  to — to — what  shall  I  say,  Thompson,  that 
will  show  what  I  mean  and  no  more? — well,  turn 
your  knowledge  over  to  them  who  will  pay  you  bet 
ter?  All  right!  You  know  me,  Thompson.  I  go 
just  so  far  and  then  nothing  can  wring  another  cent 
out  of  me.  YouVe  reached  your  limit  with  me, 
unless  you — become  worth  more!  Think  it  over. 
I  never  try  to  change  a  man's  final  decision,  but  I'm 
not  going  to  take  advantage  of  a  sick  man,  either." 

Then  Carrington  stiffly  bowed  to  his  manager — 
his  late  manager — and  strode  from  the  little  white 
room,  where  Life  and  Death  had  had  their  conflict.  - 

The  autumn  day  was  unheeded  by  Carrington. 
A  sense  of  injustice  filled  him  and  blinded  him.  He 
could  see  nothing  but  ranting  in  all  that  Thompson 
had  said.  He  deplored  the  fact  that  certain  men, 
of  whom  Thompson  had  spoken  before,  were  showing 
the  white  feather  and  openly  proclaiming  that  they 
meant  to  test  new  methods;  "experiments"  they 
termed  it. 


3oo  UNBROKEN  LINES 

"Of  course  it  is  rot!"  Carrington  thought  as  he 
angrily  got  into  his  automobile.  "  Brains  and  money 
must  rule.  The  sooner  the  rabble  realize  that  the 
sooner  we'll  get  somewhere." 

No  more  weary  and  heart-sick  man  ever  lived  than 
Carrington  as  he  drove,  home.  The  stately  old 
house — the  evidence  of  years  of  culture  and  refine 
ment — stood  empty,  for  him.  The  rare  furniture 
and  works  of  art  were  dead  things — hardly  ever 
noticed  except  that  they  gave  "  atmosphere."  Some 
thing  that  he  had  bought  and  paid  for  had  eluded 
his  hold:  Thompson,  Glenn,  his  hope  of  family. 
What  was  it  that  money  could  not  buy?  What  was 
the  One  Big  Thing? 

At  that  moment  Carrington  longed  for  Glenn  as 
he  never  had  before.  He  wanted  the  woman  of  her . 
The  subtle  sweetness  and  grace  that  were  untouched 
by  the  sordid  things  that  meant  Business  with  its 
worries  and  perplexities.  Why  couldn't  women  see 
the  high  place  that  men  had  toiled  to  secure  for  them? 
Why  could  they  not  be  content?  Carrington  could 
not — even  then,  in  his  softened  moment — realize 
that,  while  there  was  the  Hollow,  wromen,  some 
women — the  best,  thank  God! — would  find  it 
sooner  or  later.  It  was  not  that  they  did  not  see 
and  love  the  high  place  for  which  men  had  struggled, 
but  they  must  have  their  men  worthy  to  share  that 
place  with  them — or,  they  could  not,  would  not,  pay 
the  price. 

Alone,  in  his  library,  sitting  in  the  gloaming,  the 
telephone  at  his  elbow,  Carrington  that  evening  al 
most  called  up  "On  The  Way."  He,  now,  had  no 
doubt  but  what  Glenn  and  Constance  were  there. 


UNBROKEN  LINES  301 

His  pride  went  down  before  his  heart-longing  for 
Glenn,  and  then  he  understood.  It  came  to  him 
sharply,  clearly.  He  wanted  Glenn,  as  he  wanted 
his  business :  on  his  own  terms.  He  was  never  doubt 
ful  as  to  what  he  wanted;  he  selected — carefully, 
thoughtfully.  His  life  would  always  be  empty  and 
aching,  unless  he  had  what  his  nature  required.  He 
did  not  mean  to  have  two  heads  at  the  factories;  he  did 
not  mean  to  have  two  active  personalities  in  his  house. 
There  must  be  a  Final  Authority — everywhere; 
there  could  be  no  peace  without  it.  For  that,  the 
whole  struggle  tended :  he  must  be  Master  first.  After 
that  he  could  give — lavishly — but  first  he  meant  to 
be  understood,  once  and  for  all!  He  decided  to 
go  the  next  day,  in  person,  to  Beverly  Train's. 

He  went.  The  day  was  fair  and  warm,  but  Beverly, 
however,  was  indoors.  No  one  knew  it  but  Margaret, 
and  she  dared  not  mention  it,  but  Beverly  was  ill! 

Now  when  Miss  Train  was  ill  there  were  no  symp 
toms  except  that  she  could  not  sleep.  Those  long, 
wakeful  hours  were  quiet  ones;  the  tiny  creature  on 
the  big  bed,  in  the  big  room,  in  the  big  house,  simply 
lay  open-eyed,  waiting  for  the  morning.  What  she 
saw — who  can  tell?  What  voices  came  to  cheer  and 
comfort — who  could  know?  But  she  was  not  afraid 
or  restless.  Her  fair  past,  the  past  she  had  made  rich 
from  her  long  wheeled-chair,  pressed  close  to  her  in 
those  darkened  hours.  Little  Margaret  always  was 
near.  Beverly  could  not  refuse  the  sweet  desire  to 
help. 

"  But  child,  there  is  nothing  to  do,"  she  would  say. 

"But  Miss  Beverly,  dear,  if  I  could  just  know  that, 
then  I  would  feel  all  right." 


302  UNBROKEN  LINES 

So  Margaret  had  a  couch  by  the  window  in  Bev 
erly's  room  and  it  was  over  her,  through  her,  that  Miss 
Train  found  her  way  to  the  people  she  had  helped  on 
the  way. 

The  morning  of  Carrington's  call,  Beverly  had 
been  wheeled  down  by  her  gardener,  Tom,  to  the 
library.  The  room  was  a  bower  of  bloom.  When 
Miss  Train  could  not  sleep,  poor  Tom  expressed  his 
sympathy  with  his  rarest  and  choicest  flowers. 

Beverly  was  writing  letters.  She  had  just  finished 
a  long  one  to  MacDonald  Grey.  It  had  made  her 
tremble  a  little,  had  left  her  starry-eyed.  She  loved 
Grey  as  mothers  love  their  sons — as  women  love 
their  true  mates.  She  loved  him  in  all  ways  that 
had  been  denied  their  rightful  expression. 

"And  now,"  she  was  thinking,  "I  must  get  that 
child  Glenn  here.  She's  stayed  away  too  long. 
Something  is  the  matter." 

Just  then,  Jane,  the  warder  of  the  front  door, 
stood  in  front  of  her  mistress.  Jane  was  tall 
and  gaunt  and  fierce  looking.  "All  the  better  to 
hide  the  golden  heart  of  her!"  Beverly  always 
insisted. 

"Mr.  Richard  Carrington,  Miss  Beverly;  wants 
to  get  in."  Jane  spoke  as  if  Carrington  were  pound 
ing  on  the  portals. 

"Very  badly,  Jane?" 

"Yes'm.     I'm  wondering  if  you  can  stand  him?" 

"Oh,  yes.  I'd  rather  enjoy  him."  Beverly  smiled 
into  the  grim  face. 

"You   had   a  poor  night,   Miss   Beverly."     Jane 
somehow  gave  the  impression  of  gathering  the  frail ' 
creature  to  her  bosom. 


UNBROKEN  LINES  303 

" All  the  more  reason  for  a  rich  day,  Jane.  Show 
Mr.  Richard  Carrington  in." 

A  minute  later  Carrington  was  sitting  close  to  the 
long  chair.  Even  he,  in  that  quiet  place,  cast  off 
non  essentials;  they  were  too  puerile  for  that  presence. 

"Well,  Dick;  you  honour  me  by  a  call  during  busi 
ness  hours.  How  well  you  look  and  your  clothes 
are  beautiful." 

"Beverly;  Glenn  and  Constance  are  here."  Car 
rington  affirmed  this.  It  startled  Beverly,  but  she 
did  not  betray  herself. 

"Are  they?"  she  asked,  "why  didn't  you  bring 
them  in?" 

Carrington  drew  his  brows  together. 

"I  hope,  Beverly,  you've  talked  some  reason  into — • 
Glenn.  The  child  is  still — what  shall  I  say? — un 
trammelled  by  conventions." 

"Is  she?  The  last  time  I  saw  her — some  months 
ago — she  seemed  trammelled  to  the  earth  by  them. 
I've  been  hoping  that  she'd  either  cut  loose,  or  got 
the  conventions  by  the  throat.  You  and  I,  Dick, 
know  well  enough  that  conventions  are  only  to 
scare  people  with — just  bugaboos.  Glenn  had  an 
idea  they  were  flesh  and  blood." 

"  She  and  Constance  are  not  here  ? "  Dick  brushed 
the  mere  talk  aside. 

"No." 

"Where  are  they?" 

"I  haven't  the  least  idea."  Beverly's  eyes  were 
growing  deep  and  searching.  She  meant  to  get  more 
than  her  companion  meant  her  to  have,  and  she  was 
ready  with  more  than  Carrington  would  want  to 
hear — if  her  surmises  were  well  founded. 


304  UNBROKEN  LINES 

"I've  been  away  a  month — important  business. 
When  I  came  home  I  found  Glenn  gone."  Carring- 
ton  vouchsafed. 

"Is  that  all?" 

"She  sent  a  telegram,  simply  stating  that  she  was 
going  away." 

"How  like  her!"  Beverly  laughed.  "But  her 
letters  must  have  told  more." 

"She  wrote  none." 

"And  you?" 

"Nor  did  I." 

"Oh!"  mused  Beverly,  and  her  eyes  bored  into 
Carrington's  reserve. 

"  If  you  do  not  care  to  talk  to  me  of  personal  things, 
Dick,  suppose  we  find  another  subject.  Look  at  my 
flowers.  Tom  is  a  wizard." 

"I  have  not  come  to  talk  of  flowers,  Beverly.  I 
thought  Glenn  was  here." 

"Well,  she  isn't;  and  I  do  not  know  where  she  is. 
She  probably  did  not  want  me  to  know  or  she  would 
have  written." 

"May  I  speak  quite  openly  to  you,  Beverly?" 

"Yes,  Dick."  Even  as  she  spoke,  a  tightening  of 
the  mouth  muscles  was  evident. 

"It's — it's  rather  repulsive  to  be  obliged  to,  but 
you  are  the  one  person  possible." 

"Thank  you,  Dick." 

Then  Carrington  gave  a  modified,  but  true,  ver 
sion  of  the  Hollow  incident  and  Glenn's  "absurd" 
conversation  the  following  morning.  Beverly  kept 
her  eyes  lowered ;  she  never  took  an  unfair  advantage 
of  a  confessional. 

"The  trouble  is,  Beverly,  Glenn  and  I  have  never 


UNBROKEN  LINES  305 

rightly  understood  our  relations.  Our  future  happi 
ness  depends  upon  a  clear  acceptance.  When  I  first 
saw  her,  her  beauty,  her  superb  health  and  native 
fascination,  bewildered  me " 

"You  bought  her  more  or  less — on  a  chance." 
Beverly  spoke  so  low  that  Carrington  was  not  sure 
that  he  had  heard  aright.  What  he  thought  he 
heard,  made  him  flush  angrily. 

"I  mean,"  Beverly  went  on,  "that  your  senses 
saw  something  very  rare;  you  had  to  have  it!  You 
trusted  that,  afterward,  you  could  do  the  rest — make 
a  nice  little  soul  and  conscience  for  the  girl,  just  the 
kind  you  approve;  put  her  where  you  wanted  her 
and  always  be  sure  of  finding  her  there!  Poor  Dick! 
Why  God  had  given  her  a  beautiful  soul  before  you 
ever  saw  her,  and  she'd  grown  a  conscience  as  stiff 
and  unbreakable  as  your  own.  All  that  was  left  for 
you  to  do,  my  boy,  was  to  love  her  enough  to  let 
her  find  her  way  to  God — or  whatever  you  choose  to 
call  this  scramble  of  life — with  you  near  enough  to 
guide  her  by  the  touch  of  sympathy." 

"Sympathy?"  That  was  all  that  Carrington 
could  snatch  from  the  low-spoken  words. 

"Good  Lord,  Beverly!  I  couldn't  sympathize 
with  her  notions.  They  were  unformed  and  vague, 
at  the  best,  and  utterly  wrong  at  the  worst.  That 
was  natural,  of  course.  I  expected  her  love  and 
sympathy  to  appreciate  me  and  mine." 

"Perhaps  they  might  not  have  suited  her,  Dick. 
Her  own,  upon  development,  might  have  been  more 
to  her  liking.  Besides  there  might  have  been  more 
goodness  and  wisdom  in  hers  than  you  could  possibly 
know,  unless  you  took  time  to  investigate." 


3o6  UNBROKEN  LINES 

"Beverly,  we  are  beating  about  the  bush;  getting 
nowhere.  It  is  a  waste  of  time.  My  life,  my  in 
heritance,  must  count  against  Glenn's  inexperience 
and  limitations,  without  explanations.  What  does 
it  all  mean — unless  it  counts  ?" 

"Nothing."  The  word  was  a  mere  breath.  All 
the  disapproval  of  the  Trains  for  the  Carringtons, 
was  rising. 

"She  is  my  wife!  She  must  learn  the  meaning  of 
that,  from  now  on."  Carrington  looked  deter 
mined — youth  seemed  to  pass  from  his  face. 

"Wherever  she  is,  she  shall  come  back  and  learn 
that  lesson!"  he  added. 

"Probably  what  you  bought,  may  be  got  back, 
Dick;  though  I  doubt  even  that.  The  child  is  as 
simple  and  true  as  a  savage  and  undoubtedly  as 
fierce,  when  roused.  But  suppose  you  got  her  body 
back,  my  boy,  what  would  you  do  with  it  if  all  the 
rest  was  left  behind  ?" 

"Her  body  might  teach  the  rest — the  lesson!" 

"You're  not  so  low  as  that,  Dick.  No  Carrington 
could  stand  for  that  sort  of  brutality."  Beverly 
gave  all  quarter  due  the  race  that  Carrington  repre 
sented. 

"She  is  not  going  to  bring  disgrace  upon  my 
name!"  Dick  glowered. 

"Be  careful  that  you  do  not  do  that  yourself, 
Dick!" 

The  two  were  ready  for  conflict  now.  The  fencing 
was  over. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Beverly?" 

"See  here,  Dick,  you've  got  to  hear  it  just  as  I  see 
it.  You've  come  to  me ;  not  I  to  you. 


UNBROKEN  LINES  307 

"I've  seen  your  wife — just  twice.  The  first  time 
I  saw  her  she  made  me  love  her  as  I  might  love — a 
wild  thing  capable  of  being  cultivated  but  not 
changed  into  something  different.  She  was  yours 
then — yours!  The  next  time  I  saw  her,  soon  after 
her  return  from  abroad,  she  was  her  own,  again.  Her 
own,  but  seeking  you,  seeking  but  not  being  able  to 
find  you.  She  had  no  place — the  real  she — in  your 
heart,  your  life,  or  your  home.  She  knew  it;  I  knew 
it.  You  wanted  her  for  one  thing  only.  She,  pro 
videntially  didn't  recognize  that,  but  I  did.  She 
wasn't  willing  to  pay  for  what  she  in  no  wise  sensed; 
she  wanted  something  in  you,  in  her  child,  in  the 
garden  even,  that  needed  the  best  in  her.  She  wanted 
to  be  used  for — for  something  worth  while.  That 
scene  in  the  Hollow — oh !  can  you  not  see  it,  Dick  ?— 
was  her  last  hope.  She  had  penetrated  to  your  busi 
ness,  touched  your  people,  saw  you  revealed  by  that 
pistol  shot!  She  did  not  turn  from  you;  she  rushed 
toward  you.  She  saw  a  chance  of  service — saw  a 
golden  opportunity  for  the  best  that  she  felt  was  in 
you.  Oh!  Dick,  it  is  not  too  late;  do  not  fail  her! 
Do  not  bring  her  back.  Go  to  her!  Go  humbly — 
as  none  of  your  people  has  ever  gone  to  anything. 
Be  bigger  than  they.  If  anything  should  count  to 
you  from  the  past,  it  is  their  failure.  Oh!  my  boy, 
there  are  visions  of  the  valley  as  well  as  of  the  mount. 
If  you  would  know  the  meaning  of  things,  get  close  to 
that  little  girl  of  yours." 

Under  this  assault,  Carrington  had  sat  rigid  and 
white.  Beverly  had  taken  small  heed  of  him  or  she 
Would  have  seen  the  utter  fruitlessness  of  her  en 
deavour. 


308  UNBROKEN  LINES 

"Failure!"  was  all  that  Carrington  uttered.  Then: 
"So  that  is  the  way  you  see  it.  You!  Perhaps  you 
have  so  interpreted  it  to  my  wife  ? " 

1 '  You  know  better  than  that,  Dick.    Don't  juggle." 

"I  never  do  that — as  you  will  soon  see." 

At  this  Beverly  raised  her  eyes  and  calmly  sur 
veyed  him. 

"If  only  something — suffering,  love,  even  a  great 
sin — could  get  through  your  crust,  Dick  Carrington, 
I  believe  you  would  be  a  good  man." 

This  was  too  much.     Carrington  laughed. 

"Oh!  I  know/'  Beverly  went  quietly  on,  "I 
know  your  interpretation  of  'good'!  Your  forbears 
held  the  same  idea.  They  were  so  good,  that  they 
made  evil  appear — beautiful.  They  were  so  good 
that  they  felt  qualified  to  take  justice  and  mercy  out 
of  God's  keeping  and  twist  souls  into  shapes  that 
fitted  their  own  ideas.  What  other  men  and  women 
did — the  poor,  human,  bungling  creatures,  trying 
to  get  close  together,  learning  through  suffering  and 
disappointment — your  ancestors  called  that  sin. 
Why,  they  were  so  good  that  they  did  not  know  the 
need  of  God!  Oh!  if  there  is  a  commandment  about 
bearing  false  witness  against  men,  what  can  be  said 
of  bearing  false  witness  against  God  ? — making  Him 
out  to  his  children,  what  He  is  not?  And  that  is 
what  your  forbears  did!" 

Carrington  wanted  to  get  up,  to  go  away,  but  he 
was  too  stunned  to  move. 

"Dick  Carrington;  find  God — somewhere,  some 
how.  Learn  what  goodness  really  means;  and  then 
go  and  tell  your  wife,  your  child,  your  people  in  the 
Hollow!  They'll  listen  quick  enough.  Foolish, 


UNBROKEN  LINES  309 

weak,  and  sinful  though  they  may  be,  they'll  know 
the  truth.  But  I  warn  you  against  using  any  kind 
of — force.  That  has  failed — the  whole  system  proves 
it.  There's  something  else,  Dick;  find  it!" 

Carrington  had  come  for  his  wife.  Failing  in  this, 
he  had  sought  sympathy,  advice.  Instead,  he  had 
been  flayed,  until  every  emotion  of  his  mind  and  body 
flinched  under  the  outrage.  Outrage! — that  was 
what  it  was,  nothing  less. 

"I  can  hardly  be  expected  to  make  a  reply  to  your 
tirade,  Beverly,"  he  said,  presently,  controlling  him 
self  creditably.  "Your  family  and  mine  have  run 
along  the  same  level  for  so  long,  that  it  hardly  be 
hooves  us  to  fly  ofF  at  a  tangent  now.  Let  us  forget 
what  has  just  passed.  I  can  only  suppose  that  you 
are  too  ill  to  be  accountable  for  the  words  spoken 
under  excitement.  There  are  certain  aspects  of  the 
matter  I  came  to  see  you  about,  however,  that  you 
have  touched  upon  with  some  wisdom.  I  do  not 
want  my  wife  back  unless  she  comes  of  her  own  ac 
cord.  It  may  be  that  she  has  gone  to — Grey" — the 
brute  was  writhing  in  Carrington — "I've  suspected 
that.  He's  been  hanging  around  rather  suspiciously. 
Well!  she  shall  learn  all  there  is  to  know  of  him  and 
then  she  shall — choose!  In  the  meantime  I  will  not 
give  her  her  freedom.  What  hold  I  have  upon  her, 
legally,  I  shall  avail  myself  of.  And  I  mean  to  get 
my  child!" 

And  no\v  it  was  Beverly's  turn  to  shrink  as  others 
had  before  the  Carrington  ideals  of  justice,  mercy, 
and  goodness/  She  did  not  appeal  to  the  man  before 
her — she  knew,  now,  the  futility  of  that — but  she  said 
wearily: 


3io  UNBROKEN  LINES 

"Glenn  has  not  gone  to  Mac;  you  may  be  sure  of 
that.  You  have  hurt  her  too  deeply,  I  fear,  to  permit 
of  her  seeking  help  there.  And  as  for  what  you  know 
about  Mac — what  do  you  know?" 

"Poor  Kathleen  Maurey  might  be  enough."  Car- 
rington's  eyes  flashed  virtuously.  Pale  and  trem 
bling,  Beverly  turned  to  her  desk  and  from  a  drawer 
took  some  loose  sheets  of  paper. 

"Read  this,"  she  said,  quietly;  "it  is  a  copy  of  the 
letter  you  took  to  Mac  years  ago.  You  thought  that 
Kathleen  simply  died.  Now  read  the  truth!" 

Carrington  read,  conscientiously — reread  a  part 
of  it.  Then  his  lip  curled. 

"No  blameless  man  ever  gets  into  just  this  sort  of 
trouble,"  he  said,  slowly,  and  with  a  curious  look  of 
perplexity  rising  in  his  eyes.  "The  appearance  of 
evil  has  weight;  there  must  be  some  fire  where  there 
is  so  much  smoke."  The  platitudes  slipped  out 
easily  and  Beverly  smiled  an  almost  sad  smile. 
"What  does  it  all  mean,  anyway?"  Carrington 
blurted  out  impatiently. 

"If  I  should  tell  you  the  truth,  Dick"— 
Beverly  said  quietly — "you  would  not  understand. 
It  would  be  as  easy  then,  as  now,  for  you  to 
push  the  facts  aside — because  they  would  not 
fit  into  your  code.  Besides" — here  Beverly  sighed — 
"I  did  not  show  you  that  letter  in  Mac's  interest. 
His  conscience  is  clear.  I  merely  desire  you  to  have 
the  opportunity  of  making  no  further,  or  more  cruel 
mistakes  with  your  wife.  / 

"And  now  we  come  to  your  child,"  r,he  went  on, — 
"  Yours!  You  have  Glenn  there,  Dick  and  you  know 
it!  You  do  not  want  Constance.  What  can  you 


UNBROKEN  LINES  311 

hope  to  do,  for  or  with,  that  delicate  creature  whose 
only  chance  of  life  and  happiness  lies  with  the  mother 
she  has  never  been  permitted  really  to  know?  But 
if,  in  your  goodness  and  justice"  [contempt  rang  in 
the  words]  "you  drag  her  back,  you  will — and  again 
you  know  it — drag  the  body,  only,  of  the  mother  after 
her!  In  that  case,  I  trust  that  Almighty  God  will, 
at  last,  have  his  will  with  you,  Dick  Carrington!  .  .  . 
And  now  I  must  ask  you  to  go.  We  have  no  need  of 
each  other — no  need." 

Carrington  rose,  bowed,  and  left  the  room.  When 
he  was  gone,  Beverly  covered  her  face  with  her  trem 
bling  hands  and  wept  as  she  had  never  wept  in  her 
life  before. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

X^ARRINGTON,  even  after  his  call  upon  Bev- 
I  erly Train,  took  no  action.  That  was  his  way ; 

X^_>*  the  way  of  his  forefathers.  He  would  strike 
in  his  own  good  time;  perhaps  when  his  victims  least 
expected  it.  They  might  even  breathe  freely,  think 
ing  themselves  safe — and  then  the  blow  would  fall. 

Carrington,  first  of  all,  had  to  smooth  his  own 
ruffled  feathers  which  Beverly  had  so  unpardonably 
disarranged.  It  did  not  take  him  very  long  to  do 
that.  A  brief  survey  of  his  ancestral  honours,  a 
classification  of  Glenn's  absurd  position  and  really 
laughable  display  of  ignorance,  brought  him  to  a 
comfortable  state  of  mind. 

"A  fine  condition,"  he  thought,  "when  a  wife  can 
leave  her  husband's  home,  taking  his  child  with  her, 
with  no  greater  cause  than  that  she  does  not  approve 
his  way  of  conducting  his  business!"  This  was 
humorous.  Then:  "A  nice  exhibition  she  would 
make  of  me,  if  I  gave  her  rein,  poor  child!"  A 
stealthy  plea  for  Glenn  entered  just  then:  "Poor, 
warm-hearted,  uncontrolled  child!"  Carrington 
thought  on — his  emotions  swaying  him.  And  finally 
the  overpowering  belief  in  power  came  to  his  support. 

"She'll  soon  tire  of  her  wilderness.  After  all  that 
I  gave  her  she  will  not  be  able  to  settle  down  to  that 
from  which  I  took  her!" 

At  this  point  Carrington  was  quite  himself.  He 

312 


UNBROKEN  LINES  313 

made  sure,  by  private  correspondence  with  a  lawyer 
in  the  West,  that  his  wife  had  gone  to  her  old  home. 
That  fact  being  established,  he  proclaimed  it, 
wherever  it  might  carry  weight;  only  he  added  a  bit 
of  fiction:  "I  could  not  go  with  Mrs.  Carrington, 
but  I  felt  that  the  quiet  and  rest  might  benefit  her 
and  Constance.  I  expect  to  go  to  them  in  the 
spring." 

Having  set  his  stage,  Carrington  turned  to  nearer 
matters:  the  still-unsettled  strike,  the  replacing  of 
Thompson.  For,  upon  recovery,  the  manager  re 
signed  from  his  position  and  had  the  effrontery  to 
accept  a  new  one  with  a  firm  which — and  Carrington 
really  believed  this — had  chosen  the  advertising 
scheme  of  Reform.  "He'll  get  all  that's  coming  to 
him!"  thought  Carrington,  fiercely.  Outwardly 
though,  he  schemed  to  overthrow  any  opposition  that 
threatened  his  business  supremacy. 

But,  in  spite  of  everything  "the  shade  from  his 
own  soul  upthrown,"  darkened  Carrington's  days 
and  lonely  nights. 

Beverly  Train  was  right.  There  was  something 
hidden  in  him  which,  could  it  have  been  set  free, 
would  have  made  of  him  a  good  and  lovable  man. 
But  there  was  no  struggle  of  Right  and  Wrong  in 
him;  how  could  there  be  struggle,  when  one  force 
was  not  even  admitted  as  having  existence  ? 

It  was  merely  the  "shade  upthrown"  that  dark 
ened  the  waiting  time — not  the  soul  itself.  The 
soul  was  steeped  in  content.  Carrington  was  in 
constant  touch  with  his  family  lawyer.  He  had  two 
legal  advisers.  One  for  business;  one  for  private 
affairs. 


3i4  UNBROKEN  LINES 

Of  course  Glenn  had  nothing  whatever  on  her  side 
to  support  her  outrageous  behaviour — legally  speak 
ing. 

"The  thing  for  you  to  do,  Carrington,"  the  lawyer 
said,  "is  to  demand  the  return  of  the  little  girl. 
There  is  a  twofold  reason  for  doing  this.  Undoubt 
edly  the  mother  will  return  with  her!  Besides,  your 
plea  for  the  child — we  can  make  it  very  convincing, 
not  in  the  least  harsh — will  reach  Mrs.  Carrington's 
sense  of  justice.  She  will  be  glad  to  know  that  you 
need  the  child,  and  her!"  This  seemed  most  plausi 
ble  and  the  letter  was  framed;  first  in  the  lawyer's 
office;  then,  in  more  intimate  form,  in  Carrington's 
library. 

"I  will  wait  until  after  Christmas,  before  sending 
it,"  thought  Carrington,  and  decided  to  go,  himself, 
to  Florida  for  a  breathing  spell.  The  strike  had 
been  temporarily  settled;  a  new  manager,  with  con 
venient  conceptions  of  business,  was  in  control; 
and  the  smoke  of  the  tall  chimneys  once  more  stained 
the  blue  sky. 

To  show  his  good  intentions,  Carrington  sent  Bev 
erly  Train,  who  was  reported  as  too  ill  to  see  any  one, 
a  most  expensive  basket  of  fruit. 

"I'll  make  it  up  to  Glenn  and  Constance  next 
Christmas,"  Carrington  said  to  his  shaded  con 
science;  "I  could  not,  consistently,  break  into  the 
breach  just  now." 

And  so  the  silence  grew  longer  and  denser  and  while 
Arnold  fretted  and  Grey  feared,  Glenn  thanked  God 
for  the  rest  and  calm  that  held  no  finality,  but  still 
insured  her  peace. 


UNBROKEN  LINES  315 

"  Do  you  suppose  the  scamp  means  to — simply  to 
— drop  Glenn?"  Arnold  asked  Grey. 

"No,  I  do  not!"  Grey,  replied  quickly;  "he'll 
take  some  definite  course,  Arnold.  He  probably 
has  it  already  planned — but  he'll  choose  his  own 
time;  he'll  make  everything  sure  before  he  shows  his 
hand."  Grey  no  longer  put  up  a  defence  for  Car- 
rington. 

"He's  a  damned,  cold-blooded  cur!"  Arnold  re 
torted,  and  the  look  came  to  his  eyes  that  Grey 
dreaded. 

But  Glenn,  as  the  days  ran  on,  fell  into  a  dangerous 
state.  With  every  reason  for  unrest,  she  rested — 
body  and  soul.  With  legitimate  duty  and  calls  un 
heeded,  she  listened  to  others  that,  legally,  she  had 
foresworn.  The  snow  came  in  November — that 
white  stillness  that  had  so  affected  Grey  when  he 
first  saw  it.  It  shut  disturbing  things  away;  it  held 
them  all  close  in  a  perilous  intimacy. 

Again  Grey  wrote — and  read  aloud  what  he  had 
written — though  the  east  chamber  knew  him  no 
more!  Alone,  in  his  cabin,  separated  from  the  Lodge 
by  its  well-worn  path,  he  fought  the  fight  of  lonely 
but  loving  men.  His  love  was  of  the  quality  that 
could  renounce  and  still  survive,  but,  with  conditions 
as  they  were,  it  fed  upon  manna  which  fell  from 
a  perilous  source.  From  the  outer  chamber  of  his 
brain,  thoughts  unfathered  by  his  true  self,  stole  in, 
unsolicited.  They  would  wander  for  a  time  with  fate 
ful  lure,  and  then  the  stern  righteousness  of  the  man 
throttled  them. 

"A  cursed  sort  of  love  to  offer  a  woman  who  has 
been  fed  on  stones,"  he  reasoned;  "if  she  ever  does 


316  UNBROKEN  LINES 

know  love  again,  it's  got  to  be  the  right  sort — so 
help  me  God!" 

And  God  helped  him. 

Grey  wrote  fiercely.  He  turned  his  conquered  foes 
to  good  account;  he  showed  them  for  what  they  were, 
and  called  them  by  their  right  names.  He  erected 
what  seemed  to  him  an  altar  of  the  True  Love — 
and  he  laid  himself  upon  it  as  his  first  offering.  He 
revelled  in  fantastic  bouts  for  Davey  and  Constance. 
With  the  little  girl's  success  in  recovering  her  child 
hood,  he  was  put  to  a  big  test.  There  were  no  half 
way  measures  with  Constance.  Her  starved  nature 
drank  in  the  glories  that  could  only  be  fully  seen 
through  "Davey's  eyes." 

Davey,  himself,  with  faith  in  God  and  man  once 
more  restored,  throve  mightily.  He  caused  Grey 
to  prepare  Sam  and  Polly  for  the  time,  not  far  ahead, 
when  the  boy  must  be  sent  to  learn  all  that  science 
had  achieved  for  such  as  he.  Sam  looked  grim  but 
nodded  approval.  Polly's  eyes  dimmed — her  arms 
reached  out  impulsively,  already  feeling  the  empti 
ness. 

"The  boy  has  a  wonderful  mind,"  Grey  com 
forted — "it  would  be  a  crime  to  withhold  anything 
from  him." 

But  while  the  white  silence  held  them  close,  stifling 
presentiment,  blurring  the  future — something  that 
all  felt  but  dared  not  name — bided  with  them.  It 
was  Fear;  fear  for  Constance.  She  grew  thinner  and 
more  colourless;  her  voice  took  on  a  thready,  quiver 
ing  note,  quite  new  to  it,  and  it  called  out  for  Davey 
constantly.  Only  when  Davey  was  present  was  the 
little  girl  happy.  Davey's  "eyes"  and  Grey's  im- 


UNBROKEN  LINES  317 

agination  hypnotized  all  that  heredity  had  done  for 
the  child.  The  baffled  coldness  and  hardness 
shrivelled  and,  in  their  place,  grew  a  most  appealing 
gentleness  and  sweetness;  but  the  frail  body  did  not 
seem  capable  of  responding  to  the  new  demands 
made  upon  it.  The  warmth  of  love  did  not  nourish 
it;  rather,  it  weakened  it.  The  effort  to  undo  what 
had  been  done  was  too  great  a  strain,  and  those  who 
looked  on  grew  to  accept  what  no  one  voiced — the 
early  passing  of  little  Constance. 

"Davey,"  Constance  would  often  say  when  alone 
with  the  boy,  "you  do  like  me,  don't  you?  I  am 
a  hummer  am  I  not,  Davey  ?" 

"You're  getting  hummier  every  day!"  Davey 
replied.  The  fear  that  held  the  others,  was  as 
wings  to  the  boy's  new  feeling  toward  his  little  play 
mate. 

"It's  beautiful  to  be  what  you  want,  me  to  be, 
Davey.  Once" — here  the  thin  voice  trailed  mourn 
fully — "I  wanted  to  be  like  something  inside  of  me, 
but  now  I  feel  that  I  am  inside  of  things — all  warm 
and  cosy.  And  at  nights,  Davey,  when  it  is  dark 
and  still,  the  mountains  seem — taking  care  of  me 
instead  of  wanting  to  fall  on  me.  And  while  they 
watch,  the  loveliest  things  come  into  the  dark — be 
tween  the  high  peaks!" 

"Yes,"  Davey  nodded,  sagely,  "I  told  big  Thor 
about  you,  and  Thor  told  Uncle  Mac  that  he  would 
crack  a  crevice  right  through  the  mountains  so  that 
special  things,  straight  from  Wonderland  could  get 
through — just  for  you  and  me." 

"Oh!  Davey,  how  kind.  Last  night  while  it  was 
dark  and  still,  Things  came.  They  were  such  funny 


3i8  UNBROKEN  LINES 

things.  Don't  tell,  Davey,  but  they  were  my  grand 
mothers  and  grandfathers  all  dressed  up  in  jolly 
clothes,  and  they  said  that  they  wished — they'd 
never  had  their  pictures  taken!" 

"That  was  funny,"  Davey  admitted,  for  his  rela 
tions  with  pictures  had  always  been  pleasant.  "What 
did  you  tell  your  grandfathers  and  grandmothers?" 

Constance  laughed  softly  and  replied:  "I  told 
them — Fd  try  and  forget  the  pictures.  And  then, 
Davey,  they  danced  about — really  they  did — even 
the  one  who  went  to  Congress." 

"Glenn  could  not,  for  all  her  sense  of  peace,  leave 
for  long  her  plain  duty. 

"Mac,"  she  confided  to  him  one  day,  "Constance 
frightens  me." 

"She  frightens  me,  too."  Grey  dared  no  longer 
hide  the  fact.  "I  think  we'd  better  get  the  best  doc 
tor  we  can,  Glenn." 

"Yes;  but  Mac,  she  ought  to  have  her  father.  I 
can  see  my  own  way  clear;  I  have  no  doubts,  but 
Constance  complicates  things.  Dick — is  her  father!" 

"For  that,  Glenn" — Grey's  jaws  set — "let  us 
wait  until  after  Christmas." 

"All  right,  Mac,  but  I  want  to  tell  you;  I  must  tell 
Daddy,  too,  that  if — if  Dick  takes  Constance — I 
must  go,  too.  It  is  the  child  that  counts.  I  am  only 
beginning  really  to  see  Constance." 

"Glenn;  you  have  your  own  rights."  The  possi 
bility  of  a  reversion  to  the  old  regime  made  Grey 
wince. 

"I  know,  Mac.  I  know  this  is  my  place,  but  I 
could  follow  my  baby  if  needs  were!  I  couldn't, 
Mac — I  hope  God  will  forgive  me — but  I  just  couldn't 


UNBROKEN  LINES  319 

let  Dick  get  control  over  Connie  now  that  I  have  won 
her  from — from  the  Carringtons." 

Grey  understood;  he  made  no  reply  but  he  turned 
his  eyes  away.  He  had  recently  had  a  letter  from 
Beverly  Train  of  which  he  had  said  nothing.  And 
as  he  recalled  it  he  heard  Glenn's  voice  softly  saying: 

"Dick  is  punishing  us,  Mac;  or  he  thinks  he  is.  He 
isn't.  That's  the  sad  part  about  Dick — he  misses 
so  much  and  doesn't  even  know  it.  He  has  a  code 
and  he  follows  it — even  when  he  is  all  alone — and 
somehow  he  gets  the  idea  that  the  results  desired  are 
bound  to  come.  Poor  Dick."  Then,  quite  suddenly, 
and  with  a  quick  look  about:  "Mac;  I'd  rather  that 
Connie  would  not  live  to  be  twelve — if  she  had  to  be 
like  her  father's  people!" 

"There,  there!  Glenn.  You've  had  a  bad  time 
of  it  in  your  own  way,  and  you  are  not  equal  to  fair 
dealing.  Now  after  Christmas " 

And  then  they  all  devoted  themselves  to  Christ 
mas. 

The  Mortons  and  the  Pitkinses  and  some  lonely 
chaps  from  an  isolated  camp,  and  two  or  three  be 
wildered  homesteaders  were  corralled  for  the  celebra 
tion.  Arnold  took  the  children  into  the  forest  to 
choose  a  tree. 

"Is  there  one  as  high  as  the  highest  peak?"  asked 
Davey.  Constance  looked  about. 

"Yes,  just  one,  Davey.  It's  here.  Come  and 
see  it — with  your  eyes." 

Davey  touched,  with  his  sensitive  finger  tips,  the 
stately  fir  and  then,  with  a  laugh,  he  "saw" — saw 
stars  hanging  on  it — and  Davey 's  stars  were  very 
different  from  the  stars  of  ordinary  folk.  They  had 


320  UNBROKEN  LINES 

a  quality  of  shine  that  was  almost  breath-taking. 
He  saw  strange  and  marvellous  toys — toys,  that  by 
a  mere  trick,  were  transformed  into  breathing,  think 
ing  creatures  with  opinions  of  their  own.  This  al 
ways  made  Constance  laugh.  Nothing  was  ever  so 
funny  as  Davey's  wild  cats  that  the  fat  bear  cubs 
made  ashamed  of  being  wild! 

Toys  came,  as  if  by  magic,  from  Beverly  Train. 
She  had  a  positive  genius  for  interpreting  Davey's 
ideas.  She  even  managed  the  reformed  wild  cats 
and  the  revivalistic  cubs.  There  were  toys  that 
squeaked  and  toys  that  were  acrobatic;  there  were 
toys  in  embryo-awaiting  for  the  magic  of  little  fingers 
to  give  them  form;  and  there  were  toys  fashioned  by 
the  rough  hands  of  mountain  men  and  women. 
These  last-named  were  given  place  by  Beverly's 
wonderful  things — near  the  tree,  on  Christmas 
Eve. 

So  much  stronger  had  Constance  seemed,  under  the 
excitement,  that  Glenn  and  Grey  felt  safe  in  sending 
word  to  a  Denver  doctor  to  wait  until  after  the  holi 
days  for  his  visit  to  the  Lodge,  but  late  on  the  night 
of  the  wonderful  tree,  Constance  alarmed  Glenn  by  a 
quick,  hot  touch  upon  her  face. 

"Mother  dear,"  she  whispered,  "the  crevice  in  the 
mountain  is  closed !  Things  do  not  get  through." 

Glenn  knew  Grey's  story,  so  she  folded  the  child 
close  and  said: 

"Mother  is  here,  Connie;  Mother  will  try  to  wake 
Thorup." 

"Never  mind,  Mother,  you  will  do.  I  just  didn't 
want  to  be  all  alone." 

"All  right,  dear  heart!"     Then,  to  herself:  "God 


UNBROKEN  LINES  321 

forgive  me  if  I've  taken  any  chance.  We'll  send,  to 
morrow,  for  the  doctor." 

"Can  any  one  hear  me,  Mother?"  Constance 
was  murmuring — her  feverish  lips  close  to  her  moth 
er's  ear. 

"No,  dear  little  Connie!" 

"Mother;  it  tires  me  so  to — to  try  and  see  things 
all  the  time." 

"Well,  do  not  try,  childie,  just  look  at  things  as 
they  are." 

"When  I  do  that  Mother,  it  hurts!  I  see  my  old 
grandmothers  and  my  old  grandfathers  and — and 
Mother,  I  never  did  want  to  be  like  them,  but  I 
thought  I  had  to  be.  And — and — Mother,  I  didn't 
love  my  father  most — but  it  seemed  that  it  was  right. 
I  always  loved  you  most — Mother!" 

"Don't  talk  any  more,  dear."  Glenn's  face  was 
wet  with  her  own  tears. 

"We're  all  quite  happy  now,  aren't  we,  Mother?" 

"Are  you  happy,  little  girl?" 

"  Well — almost.  I  wish  my  big  grandfather  Arnold 
thought  I  was — his  folks!  I  told  him  that — that  I 
didn't  know  that  I  wanted  to  be — but  I  do,  Mother." 

"Why,  my  darling,  you  are  his  folks!" 

"But  Davey  is — isfolksier,  Mother,  dear." 

"Connie,  dear,  Davey  is  not  grandfather's  folks 
at  all."  Glenn  felt  that  she  must  make  this  clear  if 
she  could.  The  thought  troubled  her. 

"I  think  he  is,  Mother.  Uncle  Mac  could  make 
you  know  what  I  mean. 

"Next  to  you,  Mother,  I  like  Uncle  Mac." 

Glenn  thought  the  child  was  growing  calmer,  so 
she  humoured  her: 


322  UNBROKEN  LINES 

"Do  you,  lambie?" 

"I  wish" — then  with  abandon — "I  wish  he  were 
my  father!" 

"Oh!  Connie; hush!" 

"  But  you  said  no  one  could  hear,  Mother — except 
you." 

"  But — I  do  not  want  to  hear,  Connie." 

"Why  not,  Mother?" 

"Because — well,  after  me  and  Uncle  Mac,  who 
comes  next  in  your  love,  little  girl  ? "  Glenn  breathed 
quickly  as  if  she  were  running  from  some  unseen 
peril.  The  black,  shining  eyes  were  growing  sleepily 
misty. 

"Davey;  then  all  the  others;  then  my  big — grand 
father  Arnold — and — and" — the  lids  drooped — 
"and — my  father ! "  Glenn  drew  the  child  closer  with 
a  passion  of  awakened  suffering. 

"Oh!"  she  murmured,"  if  only  she  had  not  put  him 
last.  I  dare  not,  I  dare  not  cheat  him  of  Connie — 
and  I  know  now  that,  if  I  want  to,  I  can!  I  have 
got  her  away  from  the  Carringtons — but  her  father — 
her  father!  I  dare  not  keep  her  from  him." 

The  doctor  came,  after  Christmas.  He  was  the 
specialist  of  whom  Arnold  had  such  a  high  opinion, 
Davis  by  name.  He  looked  and  listened.  He  stayed 
three  days,  then  said,  with  that  infinite  gentleness 
that  seeks  to  soften  a  deadly  hurt: 

"She  isn't  going  to  live  to  be  twelve,  Mrs.  Carring- 


ton." 


Glenn  shivered.  She  was  alone  with  the  doctor — • 
she  had  bared  the  past  to  him,  in  her  effort  to  help 
her  child. 

"And  will — it — be  soon?"  she  quivered. 


UNBROKEN  LINES  323 

"I  am  afraid  so." 

" Could — could  anything  be  done?  Would  she  be 
better — in  her  home? — her  father's  home?" 

"No.  And  the  journey,  now,  would  be  impossible 
for  her." 

"Oh!  doctor,  have  I  done  wrong?" 

"Emphatically — noy  Mrs.  Carrington." 

"I  will  write  to  her  father,  to-night." 

"That  is  only  right.  I'll  take  the  letter  with  me 
to-morrow." 

The  letter  went.  It  passed  one  from  Carrington, 
on  the  way  up.  Carrington  had  decided,  just  before 
starting  for  Florida,  not  to  wait  until  spring  for  his 
ultimatum,  but  to  put  it  squarely  up  to  his  wife  at 
once. 

Constance,  however,  was  to  evade  them  all.  She 
did  not  get  up  after  Christmas.  She  was  tired.  Her 
old  attack  did  not  appear;  instead,  it  was  a  new  de 
velopment.  The  child  lay  quite  still,  for  hours — 
looking,  looking  beyond  them  all,  at  something  that 
they  could  not  see.  After  a  few  days  the  "some 
thing"  absorbed  all  that  was  left  of  her.  She  grew 
fretful — uneasy. 

"What  is  it,  dear?"  Glenn  whispered. 

"I — I  cannot — find  the  way!"  This  came  on  a 
half  sob. 

"What  way,  beloved?" 

"I— I  don't  know." 

Then  Grey  tried  his  magic,  but  it  failed.  Davey 
came;  but  his  "eyes"  could  not  discover  the  hidden 
trail;  nor  could  all  Glenn's  love  and  anguish. 

"Daddy;  you  try!"  she  pleaded.     They  had  car- 


324  UNBROKEN  LINES 

ried  Constance  into  Arnold's  old  bedroom  because 
that  was  on  the  ground  floor. 

So  Arnold  came,  rather  clumsily;  he  could  not  even 
then  hide  his  feeling  toward  the  child,  but  he  bundled 
her  slight  form  in  a  blanket  and  took  her  to  the  win 
dow.  He  sat  in  the  deep,  old  rocker  where  Glenn's 
mother  had  once  sat  and  dreamed  of  her  coming 
baby. 

The  shade  was  raised  and  the  night  was  a  white 
and  wonderful  one.  It  had  soft,  flying  clouds  and — 
a  star!  Arnold  felt  his  heart  beat  quicker  as  memory 
stirred  him. 

"What  do  you  want,  child?"  he  whispered.  Con 
stance  lay  quiet — her  eyes  fixed  on  Arnold. 

"I — I  want  to  be — your — your  folks ! "  The  weak 
voice  trailed  pitifully. 

"You — you  are  my  folks,  little  girl." 

"Really? — truly?  You're  not  seeing  me  with  Da- 
vey's  eyes?" 

"No — with  my  own!"  Then  Arnold  found  that 
he  could  not  see  the  child  at  all,  his  sight  was  dim 
med.  He  looked  away — looked  out  into  the  night. 
Through  the  mist,  that  star,  just  over  the  youngish 
clump  of  pines,  seemed  to  detach  itself — get  free! 
Long  rays  stretched  down  from  it.  It  was  like  a  trail 
that  led  up — and  out!  Mechanically,  Arnold  got 
upon  his  feet  and  held  the  frail  body  outward  as 
if  offering  it  to — unseen  arms. 

"Our  girl's  little  one!"  he  muttered;  "our  Mary 
Glenn's  baby!" 

Then  the  room  became  very  quiet.  Arnold  still 
held  the  light  form,  outward.  Glenn,  with  aching 
eyes,  stood  close  but  could  not  speak.  She  saw  her 


UNBROKEN  LINES  325 

child's  eyes  close  peacefully;  the  firm,  little  mouth 
relax,  as  it  never  had  done  in  life.  Then  the  face  on 
Arnold's  breast  became  young  and  tender! 

And  thus  Infinite  Love  took  the  little  girl — the  last 
of  the  Carrington  race! 

Just  then  Grey  came  into  the  room  and  went  to 
Glenn.  For  a  moment  he  did  not  sense  what  had 
happened.  It  was  always  so  with  him  in  Glenn's 
presence;  she  absorbed  him. 

"I  have  a  letter  for  you,"  he  said. 

"From  Dick?"     Glenn  did  not  turn  her  head. 

"I  think  so." 

"It  has  come  too  late!" 

"What!"  Then  Grey  looked  at  Arnold  and  the 
child. 

The  small,  dark  face,  lovely  in  its  peaceful  rest, 
had  undergone  a  marvellous  change.  Arnold  watched 
it — fascinated.  Then  he  spoke,  as  from  a  distance: 

"Glenn,  Mac,  come  here!"  he  commanded.  They 
came  close. 

"Look!  Never  forget.  God's  ways  are  mysteri 
ous;  beyond  finding  out.  The  child  is — like  your 
mother,  Glenn.  There  was  never  a  trace  before,  but 
it  is  here  now — from  brow  to  chin.  She,  your 
mother,  has  been  near  us — has  left  her  touch " 

The  strong  voice  broke,  the  arms  trembled. 

"  Mary ! "  Arnold  whispered,  reverently.  And  then 
he  turned  to  lay  the  little  burden  upon  the  bed. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

A  TELEGRAM  followed  the  letter  to  Carring- 
ton.  Both  were  forwarded  to  Florida  where, 
in  gloomy  detachment,  the  lonely  man  got 
through  the  long  days  and  nights  as  best  he  could. 
He  was  bitter  and  morose.  He  dwelt  much  upon  the 
ingratitude  of  men,  and  the  one  woman  upon  whom 
he  had  lavished  so  much !  He  put  the  emphasis  al 
ways  upon  the  high  points,  eliminating  all  other 
aspects. 

He  thought  of  Thompson  who  had  been  permitted 
to  rise  from  obscure  poverty  to — success.  He  did 
not  admit  that  Thompson's  success  was  due  to  his 
own  powers,  aided  by  the  older  Carrington's  recogni 
tion  of  them  and  utilization  of  them  for  his  own,  not 
Thompson's,  advancement. 

"In  this  country  any  man  worth  his  salt,  can 
rise!"  muttered  Carrington.  With  well-trained  mod 
esty,  he  ignored  the  factor  that  had  helped  and 
guided  Thompson.  Then  the  common  horde  re 
ceived  their  share  of  Carrington's  scorn. 

"Damn  the  scoundrels  who  have  been  permitted 
to  get  the  bit  in  their  teeth!  We  must  have  com 
mand  again;  we  must  do  the  driving." 

Finally  Carrington  brought  his  wife  before  the 
Judgment  Seat  of  his  stern  code.  With  his  flare  of 
passion  gone,  he  regarded  her,  perhaps,  more  clearly 
then  he  had  ever  done  before.  Now  that  the  convic- 

326 


UNBROKEN  LINES  327 

tion  was  surely  gripping  him,  that  she  meant  to  be  as 
stubborn  as  he,  he  set  his  jaw  and  clinched  his  hands. 
He  saw  her  as  Woman,  just  as  he  saw  his  work  people 
as  hands.  Both  were  flying  in  the  face  of  God  and 
man  and  must  be  controlled.  What  had  the  world 
come  to  when  the  lower  classes  dared  to  stop  the 
wheels  of  commerce  and  women  walked  out  of  their 
husbands'  homes — taking  the  children — without 
cause  or  grievance?  For  by  that  time  Carrington 
had  almost  forgotten  the  scene  in  the  library;  he  had 
never  grasped  its  meaning.  He  only  remembered 
his  years  of  devotion — yes,  he  called  them  that,  and 
believed  it! — his  generous  showering  of  wealth  and 
luxury  upon  Glenn.  "Base  ingratitude!"  he  mut 
tered  and  before  the  bar,  Thompson  and  Glenn  stood 
side  by  side,  with  the  common  horde! 

Suddenly,  Grey  came  into  focus.  Through  all  the 
years  of  early  manhood,  Grey  had  managed  to  wedge 
himself  in  between  Carrington's  creed  and  his  creed- 
less  philosophy.  In  school  and  college  it  had  always 
been  the  same.  But  now  he  had  grown  to  hate  and 
fear  Grey.  While  he  had  believed  him  a  dreamer  of 
dreams — a  man  outside  the  pale  of  real  men — he 
could  tolerate  him;  but  that  interview  with  Beverly 
Train;  that  letter  she  had  shown  him,  had,  somehow, 
unsettled  him  about  Grey. 

"The  fellow  casts  a  shadow  where  there  is  no 
substance!"  thought  Carrington.  "And  then  sneaks 
off,  refusing  to  play  the  game.  Let  him  roll  up  his 
sleeves  and  work,  instead  of  writing  fairy  stories  and 
defending  helpless  women!"  Here  Carrington 

sneered.  "Let  him  find  what  business  means — in 
stead  of  passing  around  the  hat!" 


328  UNBROKEN  LINES 

Still,  against  this  onslaught,  Grey's  image  stood 
firm  and  menacing.  So  would  it  always  stand,  the 
harassed  man  knew.  From  boy  to  man,  Grey  had 
been  a  strange  opposing  force  to  Carrington.  With 
out  money,  without  effort,  he  had  obtained  what 
Carrington  could  not  secure  and  now  he  had  become 
a  menace. 

In  this  mood  Carrington  received  Glenn's  letter 
concerning  Constance  and  her  willingness  to  bring 
the  child  home,  should  Carrington  command  her  to 
do  so. 

"I  have  no  right  to  keep  Connie  from  you,  Dick/' 
so  the  words  ran;  "you  are  her  father." 

This  made  Carrington  smile,  and  his  smile  was  not 
good  to  look  upon.  "Coming  to  terms!"  he  thought; 
"getting  tired  of  the  simple  life.  I  thought  this 
would  be  the  outcome!"  And  he  felt  how  wise  he 
had  been  to  wait,  in  patience,  holding  all  curiosity  in 
check. 

"Very  well!"  he  thought  on;  "we'll  work  through 
Constance,"  and  Carrington  reflected  upon  the  far 
sightedness  of  his  personal  lawyer. 

But  while  Carrington  was  taking  a  long  breath, 
congratulating  himself  upon  his  masterly  handling 
of  a  delicate  matter,  the  telegram  came  from  Grey. 

Constance  died  last  night.    What  are  your  wishes  ? — GREY. 

It  was  like  hurling  an  added  insult  for  Grey  to  put 
that  question.  "His  wishes!"  How  dared  they 
permit  Grey  to  ask  that?  At  that  moment  Carring 
ton  had  no  wishes,  except  for — revenge.  He  felt 
defeat — unjust,  unmerited  defeat — but  still,  defeat. 


UNBROKEN  LINES  329 

In  his  loneliness  and  impotency  he  recalled  Beverly 
Train's  words:  "I  trust  that  Almighty  God  will,  at 
last,  have  His  way  with  you."  Carrington  was  above 
superstition  and  he  had  never  felt  the  need  of  divine 
help  in  his  affairs — nor  had  he  ever  recognized  divine 
interference,  but  he  recalled  the  words!  They 
haunted  him — angered  him — made  him  more  defiant 
than  ever. 

He  got  into  immediate  communication  with  his 
lawyer,  and  Grey  received  a  telegram : 

Mr.  Carrington  desires  that  the  body  of  his  child  be  sent  to  his 
home  at  once.  It  will  be  buried  in  the  family  plot. 

Grey  read  the  message  to  Glenn  as  she  sat  alone 
beside  the  bed  on  which  rested  the  straight,  quiet 
form  of  her  little  girl. 

"Her  body!"  she  said,  looking  pitifully  up  at 
Grey — "her  poor  little  body!  Just  the  dust,  Mac, 
that  is  all;  just  the  dust  is  all — Dick  can  take.  The 
rest — her  spirit,  her  real  self — they  will  stay  here  al 
ways,  free  and  happy." 

"And  you,  Glenn — what  will  you  do? — go — too?" 

"No,  Mac.  I  mean  to  stay  right  here,  and  keep 
the  beautiful  memory  of  my  little  girl  safe.  I  have 
done  all  that  I  could  do — for  Connie!" 

With  this  she  bent  over  the  waxen  form.  Grey 
turned  away. 

A  day  later  the  body  of  little  Constance  Carrington 
was  sent  to  its  father — just  the  quiet  body. 

Then  there  followed  another  blank  time  of  waiting. 
Surely  Carrington  would  write — or  come. 

He  wrote.     He  had  been  shocked  beyond  expres- 


330  UNBROKEN  LINES 

sion  at  Glenn's  barbarity  in  refusing  to  accompany 
the  body  of  her  child.  He  certainly  had  not  an 
ticipated  such  an  act  and  it  drove  him  to  the  wall. 
When  the  horrors  of  the  private  funeral  were  over; 
when  he  could  somewhat  control  his  outraged  feel 
ings — he  wrote. 

With  all  the  law  of  the  Medes  and  the  Persians — - 
and  the  Latter-Day  Saints — he  assailed  his  wife. 
She  had  gone,  he  informed  her,  beyond  the  bounds 
where  a  man  could,  with  any  degree  of  self-respect, 
cooperate.  That  being  granted,  Carrington  drew  his 
sword,  striking  at  every  foe  in  sight.  Until  Glenn 
returned  to  his  rightful  authority,  he  refused  support. 
His  door  stood  open  to  her — upon  his  terms;  those 
terms  to  be  discussed  in  Massachusetts! 

He  would  never  grant  a  divorce.  There  was  ab 
solutely  no  ground  and  he  would  stand  firmly  upon 
his  rights  and  uphold  the  decencies  of  American 
ideals. 

Glenn  read  the  letter  two  or  three  times.  She 
could  not  think  very  clearly.  Since  Constance's 
little  body  had  gone  upon  its  lonely  journey,  it  took 
all  Glenn's  strength  to  keep  the  living  memory  of  the 
child  clear. 

" Daddy,"  she  said,  wearily,  at  last;  "Daddy,  here 
is  a  letter  from  Dick.  I  wish  you  and  Mac  would 
read  it.  Somehow  I  do  not  seem  able  to  take  it  in." 

Arnold  "took  it  in";  and  so  did  Grey.  "It's  our 
turn  to  keep  silence  and  let  him  do  the  guessing," 
grimly  muttered  Grey. 

"Mac,"  Arnold's  eyes  blazed,  "if  that  scoundrel 
thinks  that  his  living-dead  hand  is  going  to  crush  the 
life  out  of  my  girl,  he's  got  several  guesses  coming." 


UNBROKEN  LINES  331 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,  Arnold?" 

"First:  wait  till  Glenn  comes  to  herself.  Second: 
I'm  going  to — get  her  free!" 

"How?" 

"It's  the  waiting  spell,  now,  Mac.  We  can  afford 
to  wait.  He  won't  give  a  divorce,  eh?  What  if 
she  demands  one — outside  Massachusetts?  There 
are  other  states  besides  Massachusetts,  though  he 
doesn't  seem  to  know  it." 

"But  will  she,  Arnold?" 

"We  must  wait  and  see!" 

And  so  they  waited.  Winter  is  the  waiting  time 
of  the  year.  Under  the  deep  snows,  life  most  abund 
ant  stirs  and  grows.  The  sap  creeps  upward,  as  the 
spring  draws  near,  and  often  from  the  longest  silence 
and  shadow  issues  the  rarest  Fulfilment. 

And  so  it  was  at  the  Lodge.  Everyone  had 
some  one  else  to  consider — and  so  each  grew  stronger, 
more  reliant.  Everyone  was  looking  forward  to 
a  definite  something  that  seemed  near,  though  un 
seen. 

Polly  and  Sam  felt  that  Davey  must  soon  go  to 
that  mystic  shrine  of  which  Grey  had  spoken,  and 
which  bore  Davey's  own  name. 

"And  the  breaking  would  be  too  hard  to  bear," 
Polly  confided  to  Sam,  "if  we  hadn't  seen  the  good 
a  child  can  do  Davey,  and  how  lonely  he  is  with  the 
child  gone  from  his  life." 

"It  sure  is  wonderful,"  Sam  replied,  "how  we  get 
trained  for  what  is  to  be.  And  I'm  thinking,  Polly, 
that  when  we  stop  trying  to  run  our  own  ideas,  bigger 
ones  run  us.  Just  suppose " 

And  then  sitting  in  their  cosy  room,  which  Beverly 


332  UNBROKEN  LINES 

Train  had  made  lovely,  they  supposed,  and  supposed, 
while  their  eyes  grew  wide  and  deep  and  till  their 
hands — at  last — reached  out  toward  each  other! 

"Davey  will  never  be  held  back  by  us,  Sam." 

"Never!" 

"And  Sam,  the  baby  that  is  coming,  it  will  come 
in  summer  just  as  Davey  did.  This  new  little  baby 
will  keep  Davey's  place  warm  and  welcome  and  our 
hearts  loving  and  thankful." 

"It's  wonderful — the  ways  of  life.  Wonderful! 
And,  Polly,  there's  a  sad  little  slip  of  a  thing  down  at 
Connor's — that  oughtn't  to  be  there.  She's  doing 
kitchen  work  now — but  she's  too  good-looking  for 
the  kitchen  and " 

"Sam — fetch  her  away!  As  God  is  good  to  us, 
fetch  her  away!"  Polly  pleaded. 

"I  thought  you'd  say  that,  Polly.  And  the  girl 
will  help  you  when  you  need  help.  Some  won't 
come  from  Connor's,  but  this  girl  is  afraid  of  the 
place  already!" 

"Bring  her,  Sam,  while  she  is  afraid!" 

"Done!"  cried  Sam,  and  he  flung  his  head  back 
bravely. 

"And  I'm  hoping,"  Polly  wandered  on,  "that  this 
new  baby  of  ours,  Sam,  will  be  a  girl.  Glenn  and  I 
were  talking  it  over,  and  Glenn  said — she's  terrible 
deep-thinking  these  days,  Sam — she  says  that  if  it  is 
a  girl  we  must  name  it  Constance,  and  that  maybe 
God  will  let  her  Constance  have  a  bit  of  a  part  in 
her — and  live  a  little  child  on  earth — which  she 
never  rightly  did  on  her  own  account." 

"Curious!"  muttered  Sam,  "curious;  but  I  had 
the  same  idea — only  I  was  afraid  to  speak  it  out. 


UNBROKEN  LINES  333 

That  poor  little  creature  of  Glenn's  ought  to  have 
reached  out  a  mite  farther  than  what  she  did,  before 
she  was  ended." 

At  the  Lodge  Glenn  spoke  seldom  of  her  child. 
Once  she  said  to  Grey: 

"If  I  cried  at  all,  Mac,  it  would  be  because  I  ought 
not  to  cry.  She  was  so  little  to  be  so  old;  so  weak  to 
have  been  so  terribly  strong.  Just  think,  Mac,  of  a 
little  child  knowing  childhood  for  so  short  a  time  that 
it — tired  her.  Mac,  dear,  what  does  it  all  mean?" 

Grey  could  not  answer — he  was  busy  on  his  own 
problems.  He  wrote  day  after  day;  he  exercised  out 
of  doors;  he  dug  deep  into  the  unseen  corners  of  his 
nature  and  applied  all  the  sternest  methods  known 
to  him  in  stiffening  his  moral  fibre.  He  knew  that 
he  was  going  to  act,  presently,  and  he  meant  to  have 
done  with  all  pros  and  cons  before  he  entered  the 
fray. 

Glenn  and  Arnold,  side  by  side,  reached  out  now 
and  again  to  touch  each  other,  but  both  were  tread 
ing  their  own  trails.  It  was  almost  laughable  at 
times  to  find  that  they  had  been  running  parallel 
and  close,  in  the  silence. 

"I'm  coming  to  the  conclusion",  Arnold  said  one 
day,  looking  toward  Glenn,  "that  it  would  be  a 
mighty  good  thing  for  me  to  spend  some  of  the  year 
down  among  my  fellow  creatures.  I'm  considerably 
more  young  than  I  am  old,  and  I  may  not  take  this 
cut  through  life  again.  It's  common  sense  to  see 
all  you  can,  on  a  trip  that  you  pay  so  high  for." 

"Oh,  Daddy!"— and  Glenn  smiled  up  at  him— "I 
have  been  thinking  that,  too.  I'm  considerably  more 
old  than  I  am  young,  I  guess.  You  get  that  way, 


334  UNBROKEN  LINES 

Daddy,  after  Hollows  and — and  things  like  that. 
Since  Connie  went,  I  understand  what  those  little 
frayed,  white  ribbons  on  doors  mean!  I'd  like  to 
help  a  little — if  you  were  near,  Daddy  dear." 

"And  we  might  get  some  of  those  Hollowites  up 
where  the  air  is  better,"  nodded  Arnold. 

"Yes,  Dad;  and  we  could  make  the  air  better 
down  there;  Miss  Beverly  Train  does." 

"That's  right,"  Arnold  nodded  again.  "If  some 
folks  mess  the  work  the  Lord  gave  us  to  do — that 
means  just  so  much  more  work  for  others!"  he  said, 
grimly.  Both  he  and  Glenn  were  thinking  of  Carring- 
ton,  though  they  never  spoke  his  name. 

And  then  in  late  March,  Sam  brought  the  mail  one 
afternoon  and  jogged  along  up  the  trail  saying  as  he 
rode  off: 

"I've  got  company,  on  ahead.  A  small  young 
person  from  Connor's,  Peggy  Shaw  by  name.  She's 
riding  the  pack  pony.  Polly  needs  some  one  and 
this  youngster  was  outgrowing  Connor's  and " 

Glenn  came  close  to  him  and  reached  up  her  hands. 

"Sam!"  she  said — Polly  had  told  her  of  the  small, 
young  person — "you  make  me  believe  in  God's  love." 

When  Glenn  returned  to  her  father  and  Grey  she 
found  Grey's  face  white  and  drawn. 

"Beverly  Train  is  dead!"  Arnold  explained;  he 
was  standing,  hat  in  hand,  beside  Grey. 

"Dead?  Beverly  Train?  Why-  '—Glenn's 
eyes  filled — "why,  Mac,  how  empty  the  world 
seems — already — without  her!  In  one  minute — we 
know  it." 

And  indeed,  standing  there  with  the  first  real 
touch  of  spring  on  their  faces,  the  world  did,  sud- 


UNBROKEN  LINES  335 

denly,  feel  a  sad  lack;  felt  as  if  the  sun  had  gone 
under  a  cloud. 

"Here's  the  letter  from  Margaret,"  Grey  said, 
slowly  and  with  an  effort;  "read  it.  There  is  another 
from  Beverly  to  me.  I  must  take  time  for  that, 
later.  The  shock  has  rather  used  me  up." 

And  yet  Margaret's  few  words  were  gentle  and 
calm — the  mere  fact  was  the  shock.  The  realiza 
tion  that  they  must  do  without  something  rare  and 
fine.  Poor  Margaret's  scrawling  letter  said : 

She  told  me  not  to  write  till  'twas  too  late  for  you  to  come  to 
the  funeral.  She  wanted  you  to  remember  her  as  she  was. 

She  wasn't  sick,  Mr.  Mac,  she  was  feeling  better  and  that  day, 
it  was  a  real  warmish  day,  she  asked  Tom  to  wheel  her  down  to 
the  shelter  where  the  first  flowers  are.  Tom  had  a  real  feast  for 
her.  She  laughed  and  clapped  her  hands  just  like  a  kid  and  then 
she  said  she  had  a  fancy  to  take  a  nap  among  the  flowers.  I 
covered  her  up  warm  and  then  while  I  worked  around  with  Tom, 
I  kept  my  eye  on  her. 

It  was  like  she  was  dreaming  something  awful  pleasant,  Mr. 
Mac.  She  kinder  smiled  and  once  she  laughed  outright  and  both 
me  and  Tom  got  up  at  that  and  stood  close  by  her.  Sudden  she 
opened  her  eyes  and  looked  straight  at  us — but  she  saw  more 
than  us!  She  looked  surprised  and  glad  and  she  said  as  soft  as 
could  be  "Well!"  Just  that  one  word  and  she  laughed  again  and 
that's  all,  Mr.  Mac,  except  she  looked  beautiful  as  a  baby  in  her 
coffin  and  the  minister,  as  once  didn't  take  to  her,  came  and 
cried  over  her  and  said  wonderful  things — and  her  people  came, 
people  like  me  and  Tom  and  some  neighbours  and  since  then 
we've  been  fearful  lonely  but  trying  to  keep  on,  just  as  if  she 
was  looking. 

The  sheets  dropped  from  Glenn's  hands.  She 
reached  out  to  Grey. 

"Mac,"  she  whispered,  "we  must  all  keep  on — 
just  as  if  she  were  looking." 


336  UNBROKEN  LINES 

"Yes,  Glenn,  we  owe  her  that."  And  Grey  clung 
to  the  hand  in  his. 

By  his  own  fireside,  late  that  night,  Grey  opened 
the  envelope  that  had  been  enclosed  in  Margaret's 
letter.  He  found  that  it  contained  slips  of  paper; 
detached  thoughts  written,  now  and  then,  as  they 
had  occurred  to  Beverly  and  jotted  down  carelessly, 
as  if  more  for  reference  than  for  permanent  data. 
They  had  evidently  run  over  years;  some  were  in 
pencil  and  difficult  to  decipher.  Grey  read: 

My  brain,  my  emotions  were  not  stunted,  Mac,  nor  my  de 
sires.  That  was  the  hard  part.  I  wanted  all  that  other  women 
want,  but  I  knew  from  the  beginning  that  I  could  not  have  it. 
I  used  to  wonder  why  God  didn't  drug  my  soul  while  the  body 
went  through  the  furnace.  People  do  not  think  always  how  such 
as  I  can  be,  inwardly,  what  more  fortunate  women  are. 

I  think  my  father  understood.  He  made  the  most  of  what 
I  had.  He  trained  my  mind;  taught  me  his  ideals  and  hopes; 
made  of  me  the  machine  to  work  them  out  after  he  vras  gone. 
That  was  better  than  nothing.  I  learned  to  bless  him  for  it.  He 
taught  me  the  love  for  people;  he  taught  me  the  laws  of  things 
and  people.  He  used  to  laugh  and  say:  "Beverly,  you  will  never 
be  able  to  plead  before  a  wordly  court,  but  God  will  listen  to 
your  brief."  I  have  done  the  best  that  I  could,  Mac,  and  I've 
had  some  pleasure  out  of  it,  too.  It  became  a  game  to  me — the 
snatching  of  men  and  women  from  their  own  laws. 

I  learned,  as  my  father  learned,  that  fallen  men  and  women 
were  but  poor  souls  going  in  the  wrong  direction — but  going! 
Once  you  helped  them  up,  they  generally  got  their  bearings. 
Sometimes  it  took  a  good  many  tumbles,  but  that  meant  faith 
and  patience  on  our  parts. 

How  afraid  people  are  of  their  stupid  laws.  Afraid  to  mend 
them;  afraid  to  smash  them. 

Well,  Father  and  I  took  folks  as  we  found  them,  and  did  the 
best.  We  were  always  more  afraid  of  the  ones  who  never  tum 
bled,  who  never  thanked  God  that  they  had  been  saved  the  worst! 
Generally,  those  who  walked  too  straight  failed  to  see  what  was 


UNBROKEN  LINES  337 

i 

on  their  way.     Sometimes  they  crushed  what  they  should  have 
stepped  aside  for. 

Grey  read  on  and  on.  The  rambling  thoughts, 
on  the  scraps  of  paper,  were  the  guide-posts  along  the 
crippled  woman's  painful  way. 

At  last  came  the  one  dated  but  a  few  weeks  before 
Beverly  Train  died. 

Mac,  with  the  exception  of  my  father,  you  have  been  the  only 
man  in  my  life  who  really  needed  me — knew  how  I  needed  him. 

I  have  played  with  you — with  my  love  for  you;  I  have  been  in 
fancy,  your  sweetheart,  your  wife,  the  mother  of  your  children. 
Then  your  mother;  fighting  your  battles,  glorying  in  your  victor 
ies,  for  oh!  you  have  been  such  a  bungling,  human  creature,  you 
poor  dear! 

And  lastly  Mac,  I  became  your  friend.  The  highest,  finest 
thing  a  woman  can  be  to  a  man. 

And  so,  since  I  must  soon  go — and  I  hope  it  will  be  from  my 
garden  when  the  flowers  are  there,  and  Tom  and  Margaret,  those 
dear,  faithful  comforts,  near  me — I  want  to  tell  you,  less  cold 
bloodedly  than  my  lawyer  will,  that  I  leave  everything  to  you  as 
I  warned  you  that  I  would!  You  will  think,  at  first,  that  it  is  a 
heavy  burden  that  I  have  laid  upon  you;  but,  dear  boy,  it  is  not. 
Once  you  put  your  hand  on  the  wheel  you  will  find  that  every 
thing  will  glide  easily  over  the  tracks.  God  has  seen  to  the 
tracks!  He  is  a  good  God,  Mac;  always  remember  that — it  will 
guide  you  when  you  seem  most  lost.  Man  may  try  to  deceive 
you  about  God — but  God  is  good ! 

This  dear  old,  stopping  place  "On  the  Way,"  keep  it  as  it  is! 
Margaret  and  Tom  will  stay.  I've  made  it  possible  for  them  to 
go,  but  they  will  remain,  I  feel  sure. 

You  will  find — to  your  surprise,  no  doubt — that  I  have  many 
such  places — north,  east,  south,  and  west — as  that  cabin  of  mine 
on  your  heights.  I  always  wanted  to  go  and  see  them  but  I  al 
ways  knew  that  I  could  not — on  wheels.  But  with  wings! — ah! 
Mac,  what  may  not  happen  ?  I  want  people,  always,  as  guests  in 
my  little  homes,  and  I've  rather  chuckled  over  the  thought  that, 


338  UNBROKEN  LINES 

when  they  least  imagined  it,  I  would  run,  or  fly  in,  to  tell  them 
how  glad  I  am  about  it  all.  They  will  not  hear  or  see  me,  but 
all  the  same  I  believe  that  they  will  feel  me  there  and  be  the  hap 
pier  for  it. 

And  now,  just  as  I  bid  you  good-bye  and  ask  Heaven  to  bless 
you,  I  am  going  to  fly  in  the  face  of  all  the  laws  of  man — and 
those  that  man  says  are  God's. 

I  do  not  think  you  can  do  my  work  alone,  Mac.  It  was  never 
done  so  well  after  Father  went.  It  needs  both  man  and  woman, 
and  I  want  you,  somehow,  to  get  Glenn  to  help  you!  No  man 
has  a  right  to  strangle  a  woman  by  his  clutch  on  her.  If  he  tries 
to,  his  clutch  must  be  pried  open — I  mean  Dick's  clutch.  I  once 
told  you  that  the  worker  did  not  count  against  the  work;  he 
doesn't,  either,  in  the  best  sense.  Some  day,  use  this  argument 
to  Glenn — if  all  else  should  fail.  And,  Mac  you  must  tell  Glenn 
about  Kathleen,  you  owe  her  that — owe  it  to  Kathleen;  to  your 
work. 

Grey  folded  the  scraps  with  reverent  hands  and 
put  them  in  his  desk.  Then  he  went  to  the  door, 
opened  it  and  flung  it  wide  to  the  still,  fragrant  night. 
He  looked  over  to  the  knoll  on  which  Beverly's  cabin 
stood;  a  white,  filmy  mist  floated  over  it — as  a  spirit 
might — in  passing.  The  place  did  not  seem  empty 
or  bereaved;  Beverly  seemed  to  have  come  at  last 
where  most  she  longed  to  be — near  the  only  man, 
besides  her  father,  who  had  known  her  need,  had 
voiced  his  need  of  her. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

A  I  INCIDENT,  slight  in  itself,  can  often  set 
the  world  to  singing — fill  it  with  golden  sun 
light.  MacDonald  Grey's  return  to  the 
Lodge,  after  an  absence  of  three  weeks,  had  accom 
plished  this.  He  had  gone  away  to  attend  to  the 
affairs  of  Beverly  Train  and  he  had  taken  Davey 
with  him. 

Davey  was  to  enter  upon  his  life  work,  also,  and 
like  a  gallant  and  faithful  adventurer  he  had  hidden 
his  fears  and  doubts,  as  children  do — and  had  de 
parted  sitting  on  the  horse  in  front  of  his  father,  for 
Sam  had  gone  with  them  as  far  as  he  could. 

Grey,  upon  setting  forth,  had  said:  "I  cannot 
tell  how  long  I  shall  be  away.  It  all  depends." 

"Of  course,"  Arnold  had  replied. 

"Of  course,"  Glenn  repeated.  But  the  Lodge 
seemed  unutterably  lonely  even  before  Grey  was 
gone. 

And  then,  without  announcing  his  return,  Grey 
had  appeared. 

"Glad  to  see  you,  Mac,"  Arnold  cried.  And  his 
joy  was  obvious. 

"Oh!  I'm  so  glad!"  gasped  Glenn.  Then  she 
added,  calmly:  "There  was  not  much  to  do?" 

"Enough  to  fill  the  rest  of  my  life — but  I — I  had 
to  come  back!"  With  this  Grey  drew  his  brows 
together  and  hurriedly  talked  of  Davev. 

339 


340  UNBROKEN  LINES 

"I  think,"  he  began,  "that  the  pathetic  bravery  of 
very  old  people,  and  of  children,  is  about  the  most 
tragic  thing  on  earth.  I  can  remember  my  grand 
mother  making  her  big  effort  to  keep  up  with  life, 
and  poor  little  Davey  did  his  best  to  catch  up  with 
it.  Never  a  tear — unless  at  night;  always  a  smile. 
Always  'seeing*  things,  rinding  the  lights  and  shades 
where  I  saw  only  the  substance.  I  went  to  see  him 
every  day  at  the  school.  He's  going  to  get  love  and 
comradeship  there;  they  took  to  him  at  the  start. 
Gradually  he  let  go  of  the  past — and  touched  the 
future.  When  he  did  that  I  knew  that  he  was  all 
right." 

They  talked  a  little  longer  of  Davey,  and  of  Bev 
erly  Train's  orderly  legacy. 

"It's  like  a  place — left  ready."  Grey  concluded. 
Then  he  got  up  abruptly  and  started  for  his  cabin. 

"I  haven't  slept  much  lately,"  he  explained;  "that 
always  knocks  me  out." 

After  he  had  closed  the  door,  Arnold  remarked: 
"Queer  how  some  folks  just  naturally — belong!" 

"Yes,"  Glenn  replied,  "but  I  wonder  if  others 
always  think  of  the — the  cost  ?  " 

Arnold  made  no  answer.  He  was  simply  glad  to 
get  Grey  back  and  he  went  whistling  from  the  room. 

Then  it  was  that  Glenn  noticed  the  glad,  golden 
quality  of  the  day  and  also  her  desire  to — sing!  The 
realization  frightened  her  and  all  the  danger  of  the 
situation  came  upon  her  as  it  had  during  Grey's 
absence. 

"The  cost — to  everybody!"  she  thought,  and 
trembled.  While  she  could  accept  Grey  believing 
that  her  growing  love  for  him  was  alone  to  be  con- 


UNBROKEN  LINES  341 

sidered  she  had  clung  to  the  dear  safety  of  his  pre 
sence,  had  leaned  upon  his  strength — but  his  words: 
"I  had  to  come  back" — the  weariness  of  his  face — 
caused  her  own  need  to  shrink  and  fade.  She  saw 
Grey!  Saw  him  suddenly,  as  if  Beverly  Train  were 
talking  of  him  as  she  had,  long  ago,  in  her  garden. 

"You  see,"  Beverly  had  explained,  "he  had  suf 
fered  so  much  himself  that  no  call  of  any  human  kind 
could  escape  him.  He  was  often  taken  advantage  of 
for  that  very  reason,  often  miserably  misunderstood. 
What  he  gave  impersonally,  he  gave  so  joyously 
and  fully,  that  people  sometimes  took  it  personally. 
That  made  trouble  and  he  was  too  simple  and  direct  to 
protect  himself.  You  should  have  seen  him  when 
he  first  came  to  live  with  his  grandmother!"  At 
that  point  Glenn  found  herself  smiling  at  the  picture 
Beverly  had  drawn.  "His  grandmother  had  never 
forgiven  his  mother's  marriage.  Mac's  father  was 
the  sort  that  it  was  hard  to  forgive,  I  grant.  A  mis 
erable  wretch,  but  after  all  his  mother  suffered  the 
most  and  the  old  lady's  hate  should  not  have  ex 
tended  to  poor  Mac.  But  she  was  afraid  to  get  in 
touch  with  the  man  she  loathed  and  so  she  never  saw 
Mac  until  after  his  father  died.  He  had  been  living 
on  a  farm — ill-used,  overworked,  and  tragically  lonely. 
How  he  ever  kept  his  splendid  courage,  his  dreams, 
and  his  hopes,  I  never  could  tell;  but  he  did.  He 
got  some  education  too:  did  the  work  of  other 
boys  in  return  for  books  and  instruction.  With 
this  equipment  he  confronted  his  grandmother. 
Ragged,  dirty,  frightened — but  carrying  himself  as 
proudly  as  she — he  came  to  town.  He  had  a  perfect 
genius  for  making  friends  and  he  conquered  his 


342  UNBROKEN  LINES 

grandmother  at  once.  She  let  herself  go  where  he 
was  concerned;  tried  to  spoil  him,  but  couldn't.  He 
was  head  on  for  making  the  best  of  his  new  life  just 
as  he  had  made  of  his  old.  He  was  bound  to  learn, 
and  he  is  still  at  it!" 

Standing  by  the  window,  looking  toward  Grey's 
cabin,  Glenn  at  last  saw — only  him!  She  drew  her 
father,  the  Mortons,  herself,  away  from  him.  She 
looked  at  him  and  thought  of  him  and  knew  that  he 
loved  her!  Her  eyes  dimmed.  She  wondered  how 
long  he  had  loved  her — loved  her  as  she  loved  him? 

"I  know  now  that  I've  always  loved  him,"  she 
thought.  "It  was  something  else,  before,  and  now — 
it  is  too  late!" 

With  that  the  hold  that  Carrington  had  upon  her 
tightened;  it  pressed  all  the  inherited  beliefs  and 
prejudices  into  evidence.  The  shrinking  of  a  good, 
pure  woman  made  a  coward  of  her — she  could  not 
see  Right  because  of  the  cloud  of  witnesses  for  Wrong. 
She  dared  not  take  the  courage  of  her  own  heart's 
knowledge  into  account  because  what  seemed  right 
and  just  in  her  case,  was  the  easiest,  sweetest  thing — 
the  thing  she  wanted  to  do!  She  battled  with  her 
knowledge  of  Carrington — her  convictions.  She  set 
them  against  her  love,  her  desire  for  service,  her  be 
lief  that  beside  Grey,  she  could  best  do  her  life  work. 
But  in  the  end  the  ugly  truth  remained  that  she 
wanted  freedom  from  Carrington  in  order  to  give 
herself  to  Grey.  Grey  was  near:  he  obliterated  Car 
rington.  "If  Mac  had  only  cared — back  in  the 
beginning!  Oh,  if  he  only  had!" 

And  yet  with  all  this  sudden  pain  and  doubt  the 
day  still  was  golden,  and  Glenn's  heart  wanted  to 


UNBROKEN  LINES  343 

sing.  He  was  there — just  across  the  little  space! 
There  lay  the  well-trodden  path  over  which  he  had 
wearily  gone! 

And  then  quite  without  any  definite  thought  as  to 
why  she  was  going,  Glenn  went  out  and  walked 
quietly  to  Grey's  cabin  door.  He  must  have  been 
weary  to  the  verge  of  exhaustion  for  he  had  sat  in  the 
chair  by  his  desk  and  bowed  his  head  upon  his  out 
stretched  arms !  His  hat  had  fallen  off — this  brought 
back  to  Glenn  the  memory  of  him  as  she  had  first 
seen  him  and  the  appeal  made  her  heart  beat  faster. 
Grey  was  evidently  sleeping — for  he  was  motionless. 

There  was  no  fire  lighted  upon  the  hearth,  though 
the  wood  lay  ready.  The  autumn  day  was  warm 
out  of  doors  in  the  sunlight  but  inside  the  house  a 
chill  lingered.  The  door  was  ajar.  Noiselessly 
Glenn  went  in  and  struck  a  match.  She  thought 
this  would  rouse  Grey,  but  it  did  not.  She  set  the 
flame  to  the  shavings  and  watched  the  quiet  man, 
undisturbed  by  the  crackling. 

Then  a  sudden  fear  shot  though  her  heart!  Sup 
pose  that  he  was  not  sleeping!  Such  things  did  hap 
pen!  She  ran  to  his  side,  she  bent  and  listened.  He 
was  breathing — evenly,  deeply.  He  was  still  in  the 
bright  world  where  the  sun  was — the  blessed  songs — 
the  world  in  which  she  was! 

And  then  Glenn  noticed  that  a  sheet  of  paper, 
dropped  from  the  relaxed  fingers,  lay  spread  open 
as  if  for  her  to  read.  She  did  not  mean  to  read  it, 
but  her  own  name  caught  her  eye.  Then,  she  knew! 

And,  Mac,  you  must  tell  Glenn  about  Kathleen.  You  owe 
her  that — owe  it  to  Kathleen;  to  your  work. 


344  UNBROKEN  LINES 

For  a  moment  Glenn  felt  as  she  had  felt  in  her 
long-ago  dream  in  the  half-way  house  when  she  had 
expected  to  look  upon  Grey's  face  at  her  feet  and 
had  seen — a  stranger's!  In  all  her  thought  of  Grey — 
her  belief  that  she  knew  him — no  woman  had  ever 
entered  in  to  confuse  her  ideal.  She  had  never  even 
considered  it  and  the  shock  she  experienced,  now,  in 
stead  of  driving  Grey  from  her — brought  him  nearer. 
This,  had  her  experience  done  for  her !  Almost  she  laid 
her  hand  upon  his  bent  shoulder!  Then  she  quietly 
sat  down  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  desk  and  waited ! 

Grey's  dog  stole  in;  looked  about  and  gravely 
stretched  himself  beside  his  master's  chair.  He,  too 
waited.  The  fire  crackled  cheerfully.  The  sun  crept 
around  to  the  west  window  and  there  was  a  path  of 
light  between  it  and  Beverly  Train's  cabin.  Over 
the  bright  way  Memory  led  Thought  and  big  things 
became  pitifully  small  and  worthless,  while  little 
things  grew  massive  and  compelling.  In  the  silence, 
merely  emphasized  by  the  slight  sounds,  the  creating 
forces  of  life,  unimpeded,  held  sway  and  suddenly 
Glenn,  spiritually,  stood  guard  over  Grey.  Already, 
before  she  knew — she  understood  and  believed  in 
him. 

Then,  slowly,  Grey  raised  his  head;  and  his  eyes 
rested  upon  Glenn.  She  smiled,  and  so  did  he, 
though  his  was  a  puzzled,  dream-racked  smile  while 
hers  was  divinely  clear  and  serene. 

Grey  did  a  mad  thing.  He  spoke  as  if  he  were 
continuing  his  explanation  as  to  his  return: 

"Because  I — love  you!     I  had  to  come." 

"Yes,  Mac  dear.  And  now  tell  me  about — 
Kathleen." 


UNBROKEN  LINES  345 

Instantly  Grey's  fingers  clutched  the  sheet  of  pa 
per. 

"I — I  was  going  to,"  he  said,  quite  simply  and 
not  evincing  any  surprise.  He  and  the  woman  near 
him,  were  in  the  grip  of  the  inevitable.  "I  meant 
to  tell  you  long  ago — right  after  she  died.  Dick 
brought  me  word  of  her  death,  when  he  first  came. 
It — well,  it  rather  shocked  me — and  before  I  got  my 
breath — you  see,  Dick  had — got  you!" 

"Yes,  Mac  dear,  I  understand.  I  wish  that  you 
had  told  me!" 

"I— couldn't." 

"  Perhaps  not.  I  suppose  I  had  to — to  go  my  way. 
But  Mac,  please  tell  me  now." 

"Kathleen's  husband  divorced  her.  I  was  the 
co-respondent!" 

It  was  like  Grey — since  later  he  must  take  a  dif 
ferent  position — to  hurl  the  ugliest  fact  at  himself 
first.  It  gave  him  a  sense  of  decency  and  self- 
respect  and  he  faced  the  flicker  in  Glenn's  eyes  with 
positive  relief.  He  wanted  to  be  hurt  a  little — even 
if  he  did  not  deserve  it. 

"I'm  listening,  Mac." 

And  so  she  was — listening  and  looking  over  to 
ward  Beverly's  cabin  where  love  and  faith  hovered 
and  gave  confidence! 

"It  was  such  a  lying,  dirty  mess,  Glenn  that  there 
was  no  outlet — I  had  to  go  through  it.  Kathleen 
was  a  friend  of  Dick's — she  and  her  husband.  They 
had  the  sort  of  house  that  people  went  to — young 
people.  Maurey,  the  husband,  was  jolly  and  all 
that — but  he  was  a  beast.  He  treated  his  wife  in 
fernally  and  my  contempt  for  him  was —  I'm  afraid 


346  UNBROKEN  LINES 

I  cannot  make  you  understand  this — but  it  was  mis 
understood  by  her,  by  Kathleen." 

Glenn  was  listening  to  Beverly  Train  as  well  as  to 
Grey.  Beverly  seemed  to  draw  close,  determined 
that  no  creeping  doubt  should  hold  part. 

"Yes,  Mac,  dear,"  was  all  she  said. 

"I  stayed  away,  and  she  could  not  comprehend 
why  I  did  so.  I  hated  to  seem  a  cad  and  I  was  sorry 
for  her.  Suddenly  Maurey  took  a  new  turn;  he 
became  decent  to  his  wife;  seemed  to — well,  like  me 
better.  I  was  fool  enough  to  hope  that  I  had  helped 
her;  that  he  was  not  such  a  scoundrel  as  I  had  be 
lieved. 

"After  my  grandmother's  death — and  that  hap 
pened  just  then — I  took  rooms  in  town  near  Beverly 
Train's  place.  I  was  working  hard  and  feeling  rather 
lonely.  Thinking  everything  was  safe  at  the  Mau- 
rey's  I  kept  going  there,  on  and  off.  Maurey  was 
full  of  life  and  Kathleen  sang  well.  It  all  helped 
pass  a  time  that  was  rather  rough.  Then  I  began 
to  sense  something  that  I  couldn't  understand.  I 
did  what  I  should  have  done  long  before — I  packed 
ctp  my  work  and  took  myself  to  the  mountains  with 
out  telling  any  one  of  my  going.  I  left  the  key  of  my 
rooms  with  a  poor  chap  who  used  to  go  there  to  study. 
Then"[at  this  Grey  straightened  himself  and  his  eyes 
hardened]  "then  the  devil  took  a  hand  in  the  game! 
I  suppose  a  scoundrel,  a  weak  little  woman,  and 
a  young  ass  were  too  good  a  combination  to  toss 
aside  without  playing  a  trick  with  them."  Grey 
laughed. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  laugh  like  that,  Mac,  dear," 
Glenn  said.  The  sound  hurt  her  It  had  a  defiant 


UNBROKEN  LINES  347 

tone  as  if  to  confront  mistrust  on  her  part — and  oh ! 
how  she  was  trusting  him;  brooding  over  him. 

"Forgive  me!"     Grey  said  and  leaned  toward  her. 

"You  see,  Maurey  wanted  to  get  rid  of  his  wife 
and  I  was  the  best  tool  at  hand.  The  poor  girl  had 
written  some  letters  to  me  that  she  had  never  sent — 
just  wrote  them,  and  put  them  in  her  desk.  She 
sent  others — quite  blameless  ones — but  Maurey  got 
the  secret  ones.  The  ones  that  I  received  could 
hardly  count  against  her;  besides  I  had  never  kept 
them.  There  was  a  scene.  Of  course  Maurey  had 
his  plot  well  developed.  He  accused  his  wife  of  all 
the  vile  things  he  could  think  of;  laughed  to  scorn 
her  denials;  said  he  would  bring  suit.  Then  he  left 
the  house,  taking  enough  baggage  with  him  to  con 
vince  Kathleen  that  he  meant  all  that  he  had  said. 
This  all  came  out  at  the  secret  hearings  of  the  case. 

"In  despair,  after  the  brute  had  gone,  poor  Kath 
leen  thought  only  of  me.  She  was  nearly  mad  with 
fear,  remorse,  and  grief — she  did  the  one  fatal  thing 
and  every  evil  power  seemed  to  help  her  along.  She 
came  to  town — they  were  living  at  their  summer 
place.  She  had  little  money  and  she  explained  to 
me  later  that  she  had  meant  to  have  dinner  with  me, 
warn  me,  and  then  stand  the  brunt  of  things  herself. 
But  you  see,  I  was  in  the  mountains.  She  tele 
phoned  and  was  simply  told  that  I  was  out.  She 
then  went  to  Beverly  Train's — only  to  find  her 
house  locked  and  empty.  By  that  time  cab  fare  had 
about  eaten  up  what  little  money  she  had  and  des 
perately,  she  rushed  to  my  place  and,  seeing  a  light  in 
my  windows,  dismissed  the  cab,  told  the  man  in  the 
office  that  she  was  expected,  and  came  upstairs. 


348  UNBROKEN  LINES 

The  boy  who  was  using  my  books  was  there!  He 
was  about  to  go  out.  He  knew  Kathleen  and  when 
she  told  him  that,  not  knowing  that  I  was  away,  she 
had  asked  her  husband  to  meet  her  in  my  rooms,  he 
left  the  key  with  her — she  arranged  to  give  it  to  the 
office  man — and  went  off  quite  satisfied. 

"To  add  to  the  infernal  plot  a  big  thunderstorm 
was  raging — one  of  those  terrific  crashing  kinds  that 
unnerve  the  hardiest.  I  knew — I  was  out  in  it.  A 
telegram  had  summoned  me  home  that  day,  and  I 
was  drenched  to  the  skin  when  I  reached  my  place. 
I  saw  a  light  in  my  bedroom  window — I  thought 
Clarkson  had  decided  to  remain  over  night.  I  had 
an  extra  key.  I  went  in,  tearing  my  soaking  coat 
off  as  I  crossed  the  darkened  living  room.  I  called 
out  that  one  of  us  could  take  the  couch — and  then" 
[Grey's  face  twitched]  "Kathleen  and  I  faced  each 
other  at  the  bedroom  door!  She,  thinking  she  was 
safe  for  an  hour — having  decided  to  return  home  on 
the  last  train  and  face  whatever  there  was  to  face — 
desperate  and  worn  to  the  edge — had  taken  off  her 
heavy  gown,  poor  child,  and  lain  down  upon  the 
couch !" 

"Yes:  yes!" — Glenn  spoke  as  if  she  were  running 
hard,  her  eyes  were  dilated — "and  then?" 

Grey  bent  still  further  forward. 

"A  knock!  Maurey  had  followed  her,  of  course.  I 
turned  up  the  lights — and  opened  the  door.  There 
was  nothing  else  to  do." 

"No — of  course  not,"  Glenn  panted.  "And  then, 
Mac?" 

"Oh!  not  much  more.  There  was  a  man  in  the 
hall.  Maurey  came  in;  the  fellow,  outside,  waited. 


UNBROKEN  LINES  349 

I  told  Maurey  to  get  out  or  I'd  kick  him  downstairs. 
He  went,  after — giving  warning. 

"In  due  course  there  was  the  trial — it  doesn't  mat 
ter  about  that.  Maurey  got  what  he  wanted. 

"I  saw  things  clearly  enough  then — saw  every 
thing!  Poor  Kathleen  went  to  Beverly  Train — 
and  then  it  was  that  I  came — up  here.  I  was  so 
utterly  done  up  by  the  whole  wretched  business  that 
the  easiest  way  out  seemed  to  be  to  offer  what  protec 
tion  I  could  to  Kathleen.  Nothing  really  mattered 
and  the  poor  child  was  at  the  end  of  things.  But 
Beverly  struck  a  new  note  just  there.  She"  [Grey 
smiled,  wanly] — "she  demanded,  as  she  put  it,  justice 
from  myself  to  myself.  She  made  me  promise  to 
wait  a  year.  I  promised. 

"Then" — Grey's  eyes  now  were  wretched — "then 
three  big  things  happened :  My  sickness,  you,  and — 
and  Kathleen's  death!" 

"She— she  died,  Mac?" 

"Yes;  she  couldn't  stand  it — she  died." 

Glenn  was  crying,  softly. 

"I  had  meant" — Grey  went  on — "to  go  to  Kathleen 
at  the  year's  end — and  make  a  clean  statement.  I 
wanted  to  give  her  the  opportunity  of  seeing  things. 
I  wanted — Oh!  Glenn  I  wanted  her  to  know  you,  so 
that  I  might  offer  you  the  sort  of  love  you  deserved, 
and  which  I  was  able  to  offer — if  only  truth  were 
known.  But — Kathleen  died.  And  Dick  came. 

"That's  all,  Glenn — except  that  I — love  you. 
Beverly's  work  needs  us  both " 

Grey  waited;  his  eyes  clung  to  Glenn's;  she 
reached  out  and  took  his  hands  that  were  stretched 
toward  her. 


350  UNBROKEN  LINES 

"And  Beverly's  work  is  God's  work,  Mac,"  she 
said,  tenderly — devoutly.  "Just  as  you  wanted  to 
bring  your  best  and  dearest  to  me  so  I  want  to  bring 
my  best  and — and  safest  to  you  and  this  big  work. 
Oh!  Mac;  it  would  be  so  easy — to  just  take;  but  I 
cannot  make  another  mistake — I  must  see  and  see — 
and  know.  In  the  end — we  must  be  fit  for  the  work, 
either  apart  or  together." 

"Child;  is  there  anything  greater  than  love?" 
Grey  breathed  hard. 

"Yes,  Mac,  I  think  there  is.  One  must  be  worthy 
of  it — or  else Can  you  not  see,  dear  ? " 

"Yes — I  see.     But — what  can  we  do?" 

"Dear;  you  must  rest  and  then — go  away!  I 
must  be  alone — not  even  Daddy  can  help.  I  must — 
be  sure;  and  I  never  can  be — while — while  I  see  you, 
Mac." 

"Child,  the  thing  that  entered  into  your  life  is — a 


waste/' 


"Mac;  I  must  be  sure!" 

They  drew  closer;  tried  to  smile — and  Grey  said, 
gently: 

"You  are  right.  I  will  go  away.  But  you  must — 
make  yourself  just  to  yourself." 

Grey  spoke  a  little  longer,  bravely  put  the  man- 
view  forth  knowing  full  well  it  would  not  overpower 
Glenn,  but  trusting  that  it  would  help  her  in  her 
struggle. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

A~TER  all  the  years,  Arnold  and  Glenn,  with 
Rajah  following  close,  had  undertaken  the 
Monk  climb. 

They  had  taken  three  days  in  the  doing  of  it;  they 
had  brought  food  and  fuel;  they  had  made  of  the  trip 
a  veritable  pilgrimage,  and  had  timed  every  detail  to 
a  nicety.  The  weather  was  perfect.  Full,  throbbing 
autumn,  with  the  clear  skies  and  warm  days.  As 
'they  neared  the  brooding  face  that  had  held  so  real 
a  place  in  Glenn's  life,  she  smiled  up  at  it  as  if  greeting 
a  dear  and  longed-for  friend. 

The  three  would  reach  the  last  stopping  place  after 
nightfall;  they  had  planned  to  see  the  sunrise  from 
the  top. 

"Are  you  tired,  girl?" 

Arnold's  eyes  were  on  the  face  near  him. 

"Oh!  no,  Daddy.  It  does  not  seem  as  if  I  would 
ever  be  tired  again.  All  the  way  up  I've  been  laying 
down  burdens.  I  feel  so  light  at  times,  that  I  sus 
pect — wings!" 

Arnold's  eyes  were  troubled  and  so  he  turned  them 
away  and  did  not  speak. 

"Laying  down,  dear  old  Daddy,  some  of  the 
things  that — that  our  mother  used  to  say — had  been 
handed  down  to  women.  You  remember,  dear?" 

"Yes.  I  remember,  girl."  And  so  he  did — 
every  word  and  look. 


352  UNBROKEN  LINES 

"I  began  to  lay  down  burdens  before  I  left  the 
Lodge.  That  ache  about  my  little  girl,  Dad,  some 
how  it  grew  less  when  I  saw  the  new  Constance  lying 
on  Polly's  arm.  I  suppose  a  woman  never  gets  over 
the  feel  for  babies,  once  she  has — known.  It's  like 
the  feel  of  the  trail,  Daddy." 

Again  Arnold  nodded. 

"When  I  saw  Polly's  dear,  new  baby  I  could  not 
help  thinking  that  my  little  girl  was  going  to  have 
another — a  fairer — chance  down  here.  Perhaps  it  is 
not  quite  right — I  do  not  know — but  I'd  love  to 
think  so;  and  any  way,  it  will  make  me  more  under 
standing  about  Polly's  Connie.  Women,  I  think, 
should  see  their  own  babies  in  all  babies.  This  I 
am  sure  of:  the  hurt  that  was  left  when  my  little  girl 
died,  seemed  to  pass  when  I  held  Polly's  child;  the 
blessedness  remained."  Glenn's  eyes  grew  dim. 

"And  what  else  have  you  laid  down  on  the  way 
up,  girl?" 

Arnold  flinched  before  the  tears  and  the  smile  that 
accompanied  them.  Besides,  he  was  longing  for 
confidences. 

"There's  to  be  a  big  talk  on  the  top,  Daddy." 

Glenn  caught  his  arm  and  held  it  fast.  She  was 
thinking  of  the  mass  of  burdens  that  had  not  been 
cast  aside;  were  still — when  she  permitted  them — 
hampering  her  wings. 

When  she  and  Arnold,  on  their  way  up,  had  come 
to  the  "ticklish  bit"  just  before  they  reached  the 
blue  pool,  Arnold,  clinging  to  the  old  fancy,  had  said: 
"Now  close  your  eyes,  girl."  But  Glenn  replied: 

"Daddy,  I'll  lay  my  hand  on  your  shoulder,  but  I 
must  keep  my  eyes  open!  You  see,  while  my  body 


UNBROKEN  LINES  353 

has  been  getting  ready  for  this  climb,  my  eyes  have, 


too/' 


They  had  both  laughed  at  that  and  the  need  for 
careful  going  had  left  the  surprise  of  beauty  safe. 
When  danger  was  past  and  they  stood  beside  the 
flower-edged  lake,  a  cry  of  joy  escaped  Glenn,  and 
then,  with  a  quick  in-drawing  of  her  breath,  she  real 
ized  that  a  strange  familiarity,  not  due  alone  to  her 
father's  off-repeated  description,  held  her.  It  came 
flooding  in  upon  her  consciousness — the  memory  of 
her  dream  in  the  half-way  house ! 

The  lake,  the  flowers — they  were  as  she  had  seen 
them  in  her  sleep.  So  vivid  was  the  memory  that 
she  raised  her  eyes  almost  expecting  to  see  a  tottering 
figure  upon  the  perilous  bit  of  trail  over  which  she  had 
just  come.  And  then,  with  sharp  realization,  she 
felt  that  all  that  had  earlier  come  into  her  life  was 
as  dead  as  her  dream-man  had  once  been! 

Arnold  believed  at  this  moment  that  it  was  her 
delight  that  held  her  speechless;  but  it  was  her  in 
herited  burdens  that  claimed  her;  shook  her  confi 
dence  in  herself;  blinded  her  by  the  dust  of  prejudice 
and  suggestion,  and  shut  Grey  away. 

She  recalled  her  years  of  effort,  when  love  and  faith 
supported  her  in  the  belief  that  she  could,  eventually, 
win  against  the  Carrington  hardness  and  coldness. 
She  felt  how  futile  such  effort  had  been — would  al 
ways  be  unless  Dick  could  be  brought  to  see  that  his 
position  was  an  impossible  one  for  a  woman  to  re 
spect;  at  least  the  kind  of  woman  that  Glenn  hon 
estly  desired  to  be — had  the  right  to  be!  And  still 
she  dared  not  turn  toward  love?  the  burdens  toppling 
over  upon  her,  bowed  her  to  the  dust.  As  Carring- 


354  UNBROKEN  LINES 

ton's  wife,  what  rights  had  she?  Once,  having  made 
a  blind  promise,  what  was  the  honourable  thing  to 
do?  He  would  never  change — nor  could  she!  Why 
did  women  unthinkingly  make  promises  that  no 
human  being  could,  with  sincerity,  fulfil?  Why 
should  life's  door  be  closed  to  a  man  or  a  woman  be 
cause  of  the  failure  to  do  that  which  lay  not  in  the 
power  of  either  to  do?  Who  would  be  benefited  by 
it — what  good  could  result — if  she  went  back  and 
tried  again? 

Glenn  knew  that  love  was  dead  between  her  and 
Carrington;  could  plain  duty  hold  them?  And  if  it 
did — to  what  would  it  hold  them  ?  Was  she  catering 
to  a  world  that  did  not  understand  or ? 

She  pictured  the  cold,  empty  years  of  pretense  and 
acting — the  useless  show  and  the  restless  journeyings. 
She  felt  the  hideous  hold  that  the  Hollow  and  its 
meaning  would  have  upon  her;  the  gnawing  know 
ledge  of  misery  that  she  must  pretend  not  to  sym 
pathize  with.  And  against  this — stood  God's  work. 

And  then  Glenn's  soul  cried  out  its  bitter  world- 
old  cry:  "What  have  I  to  do  with  thee?"  She 
pushed  Carrington  from  her.  Nothing!  Nothing! 

And  it  was  not,  she  knew,  because  another,  a  clearer 
vision  of  love  had  entered  in.  The  world  might  not 
believe  this — but  it  was  truth.  And  if,  being  truth, 
she  must  deal  with  it  as  Grey  had  dealt  with  his  mis 
take  !  The  world  must  not  count  against  the  truth. 

And  so  it  was  that,  beside  the  blue  pool,  Glenn 
struggled  silently  with  the  inherited  burdens  of 
women,  not  knowing,  as  she  struggled,  that,  until 
women  themselves  interpreted  the  meaning  of  the 
inheritance,  they  would  always  remain  burdens — 


UNBROKEN  LINES  355 

never  flaming  pillars  to  guide  them  into  the  Prom 
ised  Land. 

A  day  and  a  night  Arnold  and  Glenn  camped  by 
the  pool. 

"Some  things  that  you  have  longed  for  all  your 
life,  Daddy,  disappoint  you,"  Glenn  had  said  the 
day  they  took  to  the  upward  trail  again?"  but  this  " — 
she  opened  her  arms  wide  to  the  loveliness — "this 
has  been  far  better  than  I  dreamed." 

Arnold  was  content;  he  did  not  suspect  burdens. 
He  had  faith. 

Quietly  they  mounted — resting,  camping — and  the 
marvellous  weather  held.  Then  they  came  to  the 
last  point  where  safety  ended  and,  in  breathless  si 
lence,  looked  down  upon  their  world  which  already — 
although  they  stood  in  the  full  rays  of  light — lay 
in  purple  mystery. 

"At  last!"  whispered  Glenn,  "at  last.  Daddy,  after 
all  the  long  years ! " 

"Here  we  are!"     Arnold  tossed  his  head  back. 

And  there  they  were — man,  woman,  and  faithful 
dog,  grouped  like  a  heroic  design  against  the  snow- 
covered  rocks.  Blankets  and  carefully  carried  food 
and  fuel  lay  at  their  feet;  they  seemed  alone  in  a 
newly  created  world,  with  their  small  supplies  stand 
ing  between  them  and  annihilation. 

"Wind  or  storm,"  cautioned  Arnold,  "might  finish 


us." 


"There  will  be  no  storm,"  murmured  Glenn. 

"I  don't  think  there  will  be,"  Arnold  added — "not 
for  a  couple  of  days,  any  way." 

And  just  then  Rajah  raised  his  head,  sent  his 
sixth  sense  out  into  space,  and  gave  a  low,  long  whin- 


356  UNBROKEN  LINES 

ing  cry.  It  was  not  fear,  nor  pain,  but  it  thrilled  the 
eerie  place  and  faintly  echoed  again  and  again. 

"  For  beast  and  bird  hath  seen  and  heard, 
That  which  man  knoweth  not," 

quoted  Arnold  reverently,  as  he  bent  to  smooth 
Rajah's  head. 

"We  must  be  saving  with  the  wood,  girl,"  he  pre 
sently  said,  becoming  practical.  "We  had  best  eat 
and  sleep;  the  night's  warm,  and  the  shelter  of  the 
rock  will  protect  us.  The  sun  rises  early  when  one  is 
atop  of  the  world." 

"And  we  must  catch  the  first  glimmer  of  to 
morrow,  Dad — -the  first,  faint  call." 

They  ate  sparingly,  giving  Rajah  his  full  share. 
They  were  tired  and,  for  all  their  brave  achievement, 
the  vast  loneliness  of  their  position  filled  them  with 
awe.  The  fire  flickered  and  all  but  died;  then  Ar 
nold  laid  on  another  stick — he  dared  not  let  the 
warmth  and  glow  fade  utterly. 

Wrapped  in  blankets,  huddled  close  to  the  blessed 
embers,  trying  to  sleep,  an  hour  passed.  The  night 
now  held  them;  the  stars  seemed  near;  the  brooding 
face  of  the  Monk  shadowed  them,  and  presently 
Arnold  was  aware  that  Glenn  was  speaking.  He  was 
not  startled;  her  words  ran  so  into  his  own  thoughts 
that  the  mere  voicing  of  them  did  not  interrupt  the 
flow. 

"When  I  realized  that  I  loved  Mac,  Dad,  I  was 
not  afraid.  I  knew  it  was  love,  for  it  met  all  the 
great  want  within  me.  All  my  life  I  had  been  reach 
ing  out  for  love  and — and  I  made  a  mistake,  first. 


UNBROKEN  LINES  357 

How  could  I  know?  How  can  girls  be  sure,  ever, 
until  they  know  the  difference  of  their — their  wants  ? 
When  I  came  back  with  Connie,  then  I  knew,  Dad — • 
knew  in  my  soul  how  it  was.  But  because  Mac  had 
never  told  me,  I  thought  he  was  safe — and  I — I 
couldn't  do  without  what  he  meant  to  me.  Not  just 
then.  All  last  summer  I  let  myself  lean  on  him — 
and  then  he  went  away  and  the  loss  seemed  more  than 
I  could  bear.  When  he  came  back  he  told  me! — told 
me  how,  through  the  long  years  while  I  was  learning, 
he  had  loved  and  waited.  When  I  saw  his  kind  of 
love! — why  Dad — I  had  to " 

"You — sent  him  away!"  Arnold  spoke  from  a 
deep  sense  of  personal  loss. 

"I — I  had  to,  Dad.  There  was  nothing  else  to  do, 
was  there  ?  Not  until  I — was  sure  ? " 

Arnold  made  no  reply.     In  the  dark  he  hid  his  face. 

"But  before  Mac  went,  Dad,  he  said  things  that — 
that  haunt  me.  I  thought  that  I  would  forget  them. 
But  I  do  not  forget  them.  When  one  does  right, 
Dad,  why  doesn't  peace  come?" 

"It  does!"     This  came,  muffled,  from  the  blanket. 

"Mac  told  me  how  he  needed  me — how  his  work 
needed  me.  He  told  me  something  Beverly  Train 
had  said  about  workers  not  counting  against  God's 
work.  He  told  me  that  I  had  no  right  to  stay  here 
and — and  shirk;  that  is  what  he  said:  'shirk'!  He 
said  that  I  knew  what  was  to  be  done  and  that"  [here 
Glenn  breathed  hard] — "and  that  I  should  either  go 
back  or — begin  again,  somehow!"  Glenn  withheld 
Grey's  secret.  Just  now  it  was  his  and  hers ! 

"  He  has  the  right  of  it !"     Arnold  said. 

"  Dad,  Dad,  what  can  I  do  ? " 


358  UNBROKEN  LINES 

"There's  no  man  in  all  the  world  that  has  a  right  to 
answer  that  for  a  woman  when  she  comes  to  a  turn 
in  her  life.  She  must  answer  to  her  Creator  some 
day;  it  is  up  to  her  to  square  herself  with  her  con 


science." 


"Dad;  you  seem  to  be  pushing  me  off  alone  into — 
the  dark." 

This  was  no  confession,  no  plain  talk;  it  was  soul 
crying  out  to  soul. 

"And  so  I  must,  girl — push  you  off  from  me;  but 
not  into  the  dark.  You  always  had  your  light,  girl. 
Don't  forget  that." 

"It's  darkened  now,  Dad.     I  cannot  see." 

"Have  you  tried,  girl? — tried  to  see  with  your  own 
eyes — your  woman's  eyes?  Have  you  cast  off  all 
that  has  been  handed  down  to  you? — laid  your  own 
life  open  and  looked  at  it  ?  If  so,  the  light  will  come !" 

"I  want  to  do  right,  Dad — right!" 

"Of  course  you  do.  You  must  do  right,  and  then 
you'll  have  peace." 

"Mac  said  that  I  was  behind  two  doors,  Dad;  that 
Dick  had  closed  one,  and  that  he  (Mac)  stood  by  the 
other;  that  I  must  either  make  Dick  open  life  to  me — 
or  I  must  let  him.  But  Dad,  I  know  that  there  is 
another  door — one  that  I  myself  can  open — and 
pass  through,  alone.  You'd  come  with  me,  wouldn't 
you,  Dad?" 

"Yes.     I'd  keep  as  close  to  you — as  I  could!" 

"But — Yes;  I  know.  Dad,  I'd  be  often  alone — 
and  oh!  so  lonely — because,  because  you  see — I 
want  love.  I'd  be  crippled  at  the  best — doing  my 
work  less  well — for  happiness  counts,  Dad." 

"It  does!"     This  came  emphatically  from  Arnold. 


UNBROKEN  LINES  359 

"But   perhaps    I   have   no   right   to — happiness, 
Dad." 
"Why?" 

A  silence  followed.  So  long  did  it  last  that  Arnold 
thought  Glenn,  exhausted,  had  fallen  asleep.  Then: 

"It's  why?  and  why?  and  why?  Dad.  Life  is  just 
that.  Why?  Why?  Why?" 

"It's  not  all  that" — this  with  conviction  from  the 
dark — "there  are  some  thundering  loud  'Becauses'!" 

"Oh!  Dad;  if  I  didn't  want  Mac  so,  it  would  be 
easy — but  I  want  him!  Not  only  for  my  love  and 
his  but  because  I  know  that  all  his  work  and  mine — 
and  Beverly's — must  be  God's  work.  I  know  this 
Dad,  I  do,  I  do!" 

"That's  one  'Because',"  Arnold  ventured. 

"Yes;  so  it  is."  Arnold  thought  Glenn  was  cry 
ing;  her  voice  trembled. 

"I  see,  Dad — I  see!  I  must  choose.  I,  a  woman, 
must  choose  and  pay  the  price,  but  I  must  not  let 
any  one  else  pay." 

"That's  only  square,  my  girl,  until  the  choice  for 
yourself  is  made.  After  that,  if  there  is  love  enough, 
you  can  share  the  expense." 

"  Dad ;  what  a  comfort  you  are ! " 

"How  so?" 

"Just  because  you — are!  I'm  alone,  Dad,  but  I 
know  you  are  near." 

They  did  not  speak  again  for  several  hours.  Glenn 
was  conscious  of  Rajah's  warm  body  pressing  against 
her;  once  she  saw  Arnold  rise  quietly  and  lay  a  stick 
on  the  few  glowing  embers.  Then  more  stillness  while 
thoughts  crowded  in;  blended  in  dreams  and  then 
became  thoughts  again. 


360  UNBROKEN  LINES 

Without  surprise  Glenn,  Arnold,  and  Rajah,  sud 
denly — or  so  it  seemed — found  themselves  standing 
close  together,  their  faces  toward  the  east! 

"It  is  coming — the  day!"  breathed  Glenn. 

"Yes!"  Arnold  replied,  though  neither  he  nor 
Glenn  could  see  it. 

Rajah  again  gave  his  long,  low,  whining  response 
to  that  something  that  called  to  him. 

The  man  and  the  woman  shivered. 

Imperceptibly  the  blackness  moved — it  was  mo 
tion  first,  not  colour.  Then  it  was  no  longer  black, 
it  was  a  nameless  shade  full  of  life.  No  bird  or  beast 
hailed  it — in  majesty  the  peaks  welcomed  it.  Then 
came  the  quivering  rose,  creeping  up  and  up  the 
snowy  wastes.  The  rocks  showed  black.  Far,  far 
below  lay  the  place  where  men  and  women  worked 
and  loved — were  born  and  died — and  where  their 
little  stories  ran  along  from  morning  until  night; 
such  tangled,  unfinished  stories!  There  lay  graves 
and  tiny  cradles — there  lay  the  Hollows  and  the 
Pleasant  Places. 

Glenn  reached  out  her  hand.  She  did  not  look  at 
Arnold,  but  she  wanted  the  comfort  of  his  touch. 

"Daddy,  do  you  remember  the  dear  old  song: 
'To-morrow  will  bring  the  light'  ? " 

"Yes,  girl.     Your  mother  used  to  sing  it." 

"The  light  has  come  Dad — my  light.  And  Dad, 
this  is  my  birthday!" 

"I  thought  you  had  forgotten,  girl." 

"No,  Dad." 

Then  Glenn  stretched  out  her  young  strong 
arms — the  palms  upward,  as  if  holding  something  in 
offering.  The  morning  was  full  upon  her  face.  So 


UNBROKEN  LINES  361 

had  she  stood  that  day  at  the  half-way  house  when 
Grey  watched  her  from  his  crevice  in  the  rock.  As 
if  she  recalled  the  place  and  her  mood  again,  she 
spoke  in  a  reverent,  hushed  whisper: 

"God!  God!"  The  words  weighted  with  yearn 
ing  and  beseeching,  sounded  faintly.  Then: 

"I  want  my  right  to  love  and  be  loved;  I  want 
little  children — mine,  mine!  And  who  shall  deny 
me  ?  Who  has  the  right  to  deny  me  ? " 

Arnold's  eyes  were  blinded  by  tears — but  no  word 
escaped  him. 

Presently,  standing  tense  and  looking  afar,  Glenn 
seemed  to  re-live  her  dream  bit  by  bit.  She  saw  the 
perilous  strip  of  trail;  the  bewildered  tottering  figure 
whom  she  believed  was — Grey.  She  saw  the  still, 
dead  figure  at  her  feet.  Dead,  dead! — but  Grey  was 
alive,  waiting  with  his  great,  patient  love. 

"Mac,"  she  murmured,  still  with  out-stretched, 
empty  hands.  "I  am — coming.  Why  should  I 
not?  Why?  Why?" 


THE    END 


THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS 
GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON 


STAMPEDBELOW 


DAY    AND    TO 
OVERDUE. 


8EVENTH     DAY 


LD  21-loOm-7/33 


YB  32425 


912842 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


